The Ragwitch (3 page)

The May Dancer leaned over to speak again, and Paul saw a dim silhouette, edged with starlight. Past him, Paul could vaguely make out “human” shapes, blacker than the darkness behind them. They moved slightly all the time, shifting positions to no apparent pattern or purpose.

“We have decided to release you,” the May Dancer said flatly. “You will be taken to the edge of the forest, and from there you can go where you will—though you must not come here again.”

Paul nodded dumbly, unable to speak. They were going to let him go, and the forest was the last place he’d ever go back to! But he was still wary of the May Dancers. They’d captured him and tied him up, and now they were going to let him go—just like that. But none of it made any sense! Why bother to tie him up, if they were going to let him go all along?

The May Dancer dropping into the hole made Paul start, then he relaxed as his bonds were untied. It was odd to see the leafy Dancer so close—the smell of him was like trees newly washed in a summer storm.

Blood rushed into Paul’s hands and feet so quickly he yelped and bent to massage his ankles. A second later, a leafy hand covered his eyes, leav
ing behind two large green leaves which totally blocked his sight.

“Hey,” exclaimed Paul, letting go of his ankles to feel his eyes. “What are you doing to my eyes?”

“It is a law,” replied the May Dancer, picking up Paul, and easily hoisting him onto his shoulder. “No one of your kind is allowed to see us or the forest, save at our dances.”

“But I’ve already seen you…” said Paul. “I mean, just briefly—I didn’t really see anything…”

“You saw enough,” said the Dancer. “But you are only a child, and our Laws are not strict for children of any folk. Also, there is the matter of your arrival, and your purpose…it is better that we do not interfere…”

The May Dancer stopped talking, and Paul felt himself tip sideways, as they climbed over the edge of the hole. He could dimly see the starlight through his leaf-blindfold, and when it suddenly became dark, he guessed they were deep in the forest—a guess made easier by the crackling of leaves and twigs underfoot.

An hour later, Paul was eagerly waiting for the leaves and twigs to stop crackling and the May Dancer to stop his steady, stomach-bruising stride. Paul had an awfully cramped leg, and his position was several degrees from comfortable.

At last the May Dancer stopped and lowered Paul onto the ground—facedown. The leaves fell from his eyes, and he rolled over to look up into
the night. Ahead, the moon had just risen to illuminate the open lands beyond the forest.

Far to the north of the Forest of the May Dancers, the sea beat against the cliffs and dark waves foamed into deep caves—the Sea Caves, ancient home of many of the Ragwitch’s evil-hearted minions.

In a black pool, far underground, the water seethed and bubbled, and the air above it grew suddenly chill. A red light filled the cave, banishing the darkness of centuries. The light grew brighter, and then the Ragwitch appeared in the pool, Her arms still outstretched, the eversmiling mouth still chanting. She had lost all trace of Julia’s form, and was now only a gross parody of a rag doll. She was taller than a man, with huge bulging arms and legs that leaked straw. Her painted face appeared even more malign in its new proportions.

Floating easily in the pool, She looked around the cave and laughed—the chilling cackle that had scared Paul, and thousands of others over her grim past. Still cackling, She hauled herself up on a ledge, and took stock of Her surroundings.

Julia woke with a start, suddenly feeling that she was late for something. She sat up sleepily, opening her eyes—to see nothing but absolute blackness. Everything was black, totally black, and for a second Julia panicked, thinking she’d been struck blind. Then she remembered previous mornings, of waking up before dawn with the curtains tightly
closed against any light that might be outside.

Giggling a little nervously, Julia reached down to throw off her blankets—and somersaulted. Just by reaching forward—but it was a slow somersault, like being underwater. Forgetting to be scared, Julia somersaulted again, and then did a few corkscrews ending with a flip. She seemed to be suspended in something like water, but it was stiffer, less fluid—like glue. And she could still breathe.

Then Julia remembered the Ragwitch.

“Oh, Paul,” whispered Julia. “How could I be so stupid?”

A dull rumble, like distant laughter, punctuated her whisper, and at the same time, Julia caught sight of a small spark of light, like a candle in a distant window. As it was the only thing visible in the blackness, Julia headed for it, breaststroking through the strange atmosphere.

Slowly, the light became brighter, and Julia saw that it was some sort of globe. It seemed to produce the light itself, in irregular flashes—occasionally shifting through the spectrum, but always coming back to a clear white light.

Julia circled it, delighting in the light that made her new environment so clear and beautiful. She flipped end over end with ease, breaking into a swan dive to float slowly down past the globe. An eddy in the fluid pushed her close to the globe, and without thinking, she touched it.

Instantly, all was black again, and the fluid suddenly went cold. A voice came to her mind, chill and biting—the voice of the Ragwitch.

“Ah—you have found your way to the globe. But where do you think you are, little Julia?”

“I don’t know,” shouted Julia, half-angry, but afraid to show this to the awful creature who spoke into her mind.

“You are inside me,” whispered the Ragwitch maliciously. “Your essence has been consumed. But I will let you live a little longer, for my amusement…and other things. Perhaps they will amuse you too, my little Julia, who loves her dolls. Look into the globe…”

Julia promptly somersaulted away, deciding not to do anything the Ragwitch wanted—though she felt more scared than ever. But even as she straightened out to swim away, a force gripped her, holding fiercely to the muscles in her arms and legs, twisting them back and forth, rippling them spastically under the skin. Then with a sudden wrench, her head twisted back towards the globe, and the rest of her body followed painfully.

Julia closed her eyes, but the thing inside pushed them open, making her look at the globe. Again, Julia forced them closed, only to have her own hands rise up to keep them prized open. Open—and looking directly into the swirling colors of the globe, colors that seemed to swarm out, enveloping her in a mist, suddenly going from rainbow-colored to a
dull, choking grey.

It swept her up, and dashed her down into the globe. Falling, she felt her body become weightless—and then nonexistent. Without any physical sensations at all, Julia fell into darkness.

What might have been days or years later, Julia felt her senses returning. She could feel pain, and sense a glimmer of light emanating from somewhere. But her body felt strange and cumbersome, and her lips felt cold and leathery to her clumsy tongue.

Hesitantly, she opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the light. They hurt at first, but slowly came into focus. She seemed to be in a rocky cave which was bathed in a dim reddish light. Eagerly, Julia looked around, hope welling up inside her. Escape from the Ragwitch?

Then she took a step forward and, looking down, saw her feet—long, leathery feet, that somehow seemed to be stitched, and were leaking a yellow, wet straw stuffing…

Julia’s scream was the first and last time she had control of the Ragwitch’s mouth. Even as it echoed, it was overlaid with a grim cackle, and Julia was paralyzed. She could still see, and hear, and feel, but could no longer move even the most insignificant muscle.

“For your amusement,” said the Ragwitch out into the cave, though it was solely for Julia to hear. “For your amusement I will let you see through my
eyes, hear through my ears, feel what I touch. But you will never inhabit your body again.” Then the Ragwitch laughed, an obscene cackle, echoing out in the dark underground chamber. Still laughing, She began to run through the black tunnels, heading upwards towards the light.

A
FTER THE
M
AY
Dancer dumped him on the edge of the forest, Paul spent an uncomfortable few hours trying to sleep in a leaf-filled hollow, but he kept waking at the slightest noise, so he spent the remainder of the night awake and listening. Fortunately, dawn came before too long, promising something better than a cold hollow frequented by ants.

In the bright new sunlight, Paul saw that the lands ahead were clear, and obviously populated. Green fields stretched as far as he could see, gently climbing over small hills, or around the occasional small wood or copse—each full of trees quite different from those in the dark, crowded forest.

The forest lay quite high on the hill behind him, so Paul went straight down, delighting in the ability to run free of vines and clinging roots. Every
now and then, a rough stone wall barred his progress—proof that these pleasant green hills were inhabited.

Then, as if further proof were needed, Paul spotted a flock of sheep and, more importantly, a shepherd. Eagerly, he ran towards them—before suddenly faltering. What if the shepherd were another creature, like the May Dancers, or possibly something worse? Paul quickly turned back to the nearest stone wall, and hid near where the shepherd and his flock should pass.

As they drew closer, his fear lessened. The shepherd wore a rough wool cloak, but the hood was pushed well back, revealing the cheerful, straggly-bearded face of an old man, who was whistling between his two front teeth—a pleasant tune, that sounded a little like “Greensleeves.”

Paul needed no more, so he stood up and said, “Hello!”

The shepherd looked up, and stopped whistling. He looked dumbfounded by Paul’s sudden appearance, and made no move to speak—or indeed, to do anything.

“Hello,” said Paul, giving him a small wave. This seemed to puzzle the shepherd even more. He looked over his shoulder once, then looked past Paul, up to the forest, before answering, and his hand fell to the cudgel thrust through his belt.

“Hello,” said the shepherd, warily. “What are you doing up here?”

“Nothing,” replied Paul. “I just came down—out of the forest…”

“The forest!” interrupted the shepherd, quickly making a strange sign with thumb and forefinger against his head. “What were you doing in the forest? You didn’t upset the May Dancers?”

“No…” said Paul hesitantly, somewhat taken aback by the old man’s vehemence. “I don’t think so. They let me go. One of them even carried me out of the forest—he dropped me just up there, at the top of the hill.”

The shepherd appeared quite relieved at this, and Paul noticed that he was no longer fingering the thick wooden cudgel at his side.

“That is well. The May Dancers are strange folk, best left undisturbed by the likes of us. Which village are you from, lad—and where did you get your strange garments?”

“I’m not from any village,” Paul said, wishing that he was from somewhere nearby. He fingered the dirty hem of his T-shirt, and added, “And these are my normal clothes.”

“Not from any village?” the shepherd asked, backing off and making the sign with his thumb and forefinger again. “Carried here by the May Dancers…”

He began to back off still further, so Paul tried to put him at ease. “I’m only a boy—I was just looking for my sister. It’s hard to explain…but I’d never even heard of the May Dancers before last night. Honest!”

“Just a boy,” repeated the shepherd, as if trying to convince himself this was true. “You’re not…a creature from the North?”

“No. I’m a normal boy. It’s just that strange things have been happening…” Paul looked back over his shoulder, up at the brooding forest. Suddenly, the full enormity of it all became too much. He was alone in a strange world populated by strange creatures and suspicious old men, and worst of all, there was no Julia to tell him what to do. Unable to help it, he sat down on the stone wall, and began to cry, brushing away the tears with the back of a dirty hand.

“Here, then,” said the shepherd, somewhat surprised. “I meant no harm. Some strange folk sometimes cross near the forest—some of them might even take the shape of a young lad. But tears are beyond that sort…I think.” The shepherd looked at his flock for a second, and then at the sky, where the sun was just climbing up to its morning brilliance. “You’d best come with me, now. We’ll start back down to the village. The sheep’ll just have to eat as best they can on the way.”

Paul looked up and, taking a deep breath, said (almost steadily), “Thank you. I’m sorry to make your sheep go hungry.”

“Nay, lad,” said the shepherd. “I’ve a bit of fodder for them at home, and they’ll be up here tomorrow for a week. Here—you go over there, and we’ll have ‘em turned around before they knows it.”

On the way down to the village, the shepherd
told Paul that his name was Malgar, commonly known as Malgar the shepherd, as there were two other (unrelated) Malgars in the village of Awginn-on-Awgaer.

Paul listened carefully, and asked several questions about the village and the surrounding lands. Malgar answered easily, and gave no sign that he knew Paul was a stranger, not only to the village, but to the whole country.

He explained that Awginn lay in the Canton of Sasterisk, a large town to the northeast. This, with twelve other Cantons, made up the Kingdom of Yendre. It was more a loose collection of states than a Kingdom, except in times of war and trouble, of which the country had been free for many years. Malgar knew of no other lands, except for the wild country to the north, in which no people dwelt.

Paul had already guessed that he had been taken to another world by the Ragwitch’s fire, and was now completely sure he wasn’t anywhere on Earth. He had never heard of the places Malgar talked of, and the May Dancers were obviously not something he had dreamed up, since Malgar knew they lived in the forest. Paul felt sick at the thought that he was impossibly far from home. Running off to rescue Julia seemed like the dumbest thing he’d ever done.

It took several hours to walk down the gently sloping fields, and through countless gates in the low stone fences. They saw a few other shepherds and their flocks, but Malgar took paths away
from them, as if he didn’t want Paul to meet them. And still they kept on walking, till Paul was staggering along behind, despairing of ever reaching the village, having a rest and getting something to eat beyond a piece of Malgar’s bread and cheese. He was half dreaming of water beds and roast chicken, when Malgar stopped, and pointed out a stand of oaks ahead. Between them, and some distance away, Paul saw the dark blue strip of a river.

“The Awgaer,” said Malgar. “Many boats pass along it, from Sasterisk down to the sea.”

“It doesn’t look wide enough for boats,” said Paul in a small, worn-out voice. “It must only be ten meters wide at the most. You couldn’t get much of a boat down that, surely?”

“This is one of the narrow sections, lad. It widens out before and after this point. But you are right. The river folk use special craft of narrow beam and shallow draught, which they pole along at a great pace. Strange people, but kindly enough. Come—the village is only a little way along the river.”

In fact, Malgar’s “little way” was still at least a kilometer. Despite his hunger pangs, Paul was half-asleep by the time they got there—so much so that he hardly looked at the neat, whitewashed stone cottages, with their yellow thatched roofs. It wasn’t until they stood in the village square that he lifted his head to gaze about through eyes heavy with exhaustion.

In front of him, Malgar stood frowning, obviously in deep thought. Past Malgar stood a large building with a faded inn sign hanging above the door—a green head, garlanded with yellow flowers.

“Now we’re here,” said Malgar, “I don’t rightly know what to do with you. I have to get these sheep home, but it’s still half a league to my stead.” He scratched his head again, and cast a slightly wistful glance at the inn, before deciding. “Well, best you come with me, lad. Can you still walk?”

Paul nodded, unenthusiastic about the prospect of walking farther, and started to stand up, when a man stepped up from behind him, and laid a hand on Malgar’s shoulder.

“Going where, Malgar Sheep-herder?”

Malgar turned to face the man, and inclined his head in a sort of half-bow. Paul wondered why he did that—the other man didn’t look much different. He was dressed in much the same way as Malgar, except he had a short dagger hanging from his belt rather than a bog-oak cudgel. He was younger too, black-haired, with a long drooping mustache and sharp blue eyes.

“To tell you the truth, Sir Aleyne,” said Malgar, with some relief, “I’m glad you’re here.” Rapidly, he outlined how he’d found Paul, and the small amount the boy had told him about the May Dancers, his lost sister and his home.

Aleyne listened carefully, occasionally glancing
towards Paul. When Malgar had finished, he said, “Take your sheep home, Malgar. I will take the boy. To the inn, for rest—and then, I think, to Rhysamarn.”

“Rhysamarn?” asked Malgar, obviously upset. “You really think the boy should go there?”

“I would say it is the only place for him,” replied Aleyne. He looked down at Paul, who had fallen asleep against a large, conveniently resting sheep. Paul was much the worse the wear for his adventures, and Aleyne saw only a short, slightly plump boy of eleven or so, covered in dirt—a strange appearance for a visitor from other lands.

“He will sleep through this afternoon and night, I think,” continued Aleyne. “And perhaps tomorrow. I shall take him to Rhysamarn myself, the day after. You have done well, Malgar.”

Malgar looked down on the boy anxiously. “He seems a nice enough lad. He won’t come to any…harm…on Rhysamarn?”

Aleyne smiled, and picked Paul up, easily cradling him in his strong arms. “It is the Mountain of the Wise, Malgar—not some cavern of the Ragwitch.”

“The Ragwitch…” muttered Paul in his sleep. Aleyne looked down and saw Paul grimace as he spoke, teeth clenched and lips drawing back in a feral snarl.

“Yes,” he said, as Malgar made the sign against evil magic. “Definitely, he must go to Rhysamarn.”

As the night inked into the sky, the Ragwitch climbed out of the cave mouth and surveyed Her realm. Awestricken, Julia watched through the Ragwitch’s eyes, as She surveyed the great crescent-shaped bay that curved around them. The Ragwitch stood on a slab of rock which thrust out high above the sea. Below this slab and right around the bay, other caves and holes stood out darkly against the grey stone. The sun lay low in the west, already beginning to set—and with the passing of the light, the caves became darker and the sea went from blue to deepest black. Down below, the pounding of the surf in the deep caves became an ominous drumbeat.

Then the Ragwitch screamed, a long, chilling scream that rose and fell with the rhythm of the surf. Deep inside the Ragwitch’s mind, Julia felt what it was like to deliver that scream—the exultation of freedom, the flexing of power, and worst of all…the expectation of an answer.

At first, silence greeted the Ragwitch’s scream, the silence of an audience just before the applause. But the answering calls were not long in coming: the dull rumblings of vast creatures, woken far beneath the earth, and the shrill whistlings of other beings closer at hand.

“You see, my little Julia,” whispered the Ragwitch, Her leathery lips barely moving. “My servants remember My power well—even in this
shape, they recognize Me! They still come when I call. You will like them.”

“No,” said Julia, defiantly. She was absolutely sure that the things that made those noises would not be likeable at all.

“Yes,” murmured the Ragwitch. “You will like them. Eventually.”

She turned to the cliff, and began to climb up towards the top. Julia noticed that there was some sort of path, or eroded staircase—whichever it was, the Ragwitch seemed to know every turn and rise, neatly avoiding places where the cliff had fallen away. Below them, the screams and cries diminished to be replaced by the sounds of movement: sounds of scraping claws, and footfalls that did not sound human.

Locked within the Ragwitch’s mind, Julia kept trying to turn her head—a reflex to see those things behind her. But while she knew her head should turn, it could not: Julia’s eyes were only those of the Ragwitch, and they were intent on the path ahead.

Eventually, the huge leathery form of the Ragwitch reached the top of the cliff, a flat expanse of low shrubs and grasses, ill-lit in the last red light of the sun. The Ragwitch set off purposefully, pausing only to thrust back some of the yellow stuffing that leaked from her side. Once again, She did not look back.

Crossing this flat, monotonous terrain seemed to
take hours, and Julia dozed—asleep without closing her eyes, which were the Ragwitch’s, and so, never shut. A dream-like pattern of images filled her mind: loping through this dull land, then hurrying towards a rocky spire, a tower of twisted, volcanic rock which sparkled even in the starlight. The Ragwitch went to the spire, and began to climb…tirelessly, hand over hand, up to the very pinnacle, up to the blackest part of the night sky.

Julia woke up in slow stages, as though she were swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. The Ragwitch was now sitting on some sort of throne carved out of the glassy rock. Runes of red gold ran along the arms, disappearing down the front of the throne.

Then, the Ragwitch looked down—and Julia felt her mind twitch, trying to tell nonexistent hands to grab hold of something before she fell…for the throne was on the very peak of the spire she had thought was a waking dream. The throne rested hundreds of meters up, on the thin needle-point of the spire’s peak, with nothing else about it, no flat place nor protective railing.

The Ragwitch looked up again, tilting Her head back, and Julia felt Her lips creaking back across the snail-flesh gums, the mouth opening to scream again. The Calling Scream, the Voice of Summoning, welled up from the recesses of the Ragwitch’s dark power, high on Her ancient throne that men had called the Spire.

This time, Julia screamed as well, a thin, mental shriek that was swallowed up by the Ragwitch’s own great roar. But it was there—a sign of Julia’s resistance to her captor.