The Ragwitch (8 page)

“Yes, yes,” said Quigin, impatiently. He pointed to the east, towards a distant mountain, itself only a tiny lump on the horizon, half obscured by long lines of wispy cloud. “It’s over there.”

“On the mountain?” asked Paul, hoping it wasn’t. He didn’t like mountains much any more, ranking them after forests as places to avoid.

“No,” said Quigin. “Above the mountain. In the air. Or as the birds would say…”

He drew a deep breath, and let out a shrill whistle, which rose and fell, echoing harshly across the fields. At the sound of the whistle, Leasel froze, and then bolted away, streaking through the weeds like an overcharged toy train.

“Wort!” swore Quigin. “You’d think she could tell the difference between me hawk-whistling and a hawk hawk-whistling!”

Paul watched him run after the hare, nearly falling over with every step. He seemed to be all loose-limbed and very clumsy—but he was also very fast. Somehow, he seemed to have the movements of a tall, gangly person, mistakenly wrapped up in a stocky, muscular body.

I hope he can work the balloon all right, thought Paul anxiously, watching the older boy catch Leasel by falling on her. For a second Paul thought of Aleyne, and wished he were there instead of
Quigin. But at least the Friend of Beasts seemed a cheerful person—he had hardly quivered at the terrors Paul had described.

And he did know how to find the Master of Air. Or at least, he said he did.

Julia hesitantly opened one eye, half expecting to still be tied into the Ragwitch’s senses. And she was very much afraid of what she might see, if they were still inside the green-panelled house with the old lady. Or whatever the Ragwitch might have left of her…

Slowly her eyelid crept open, and Julia sighed as the comforting white light of the globe splashed onto her face. It might only be a temporary refuge, but at least she was back in her own body, floating in the strange fluid deep in the Ragwitch’s mind.

Relieved, she opened her other eye, and blinked to make sure she was seeing straight. Then she arched her back, spreading her arms and legs like a starfish, rejoicing in the feel and movement of her own body—so different from the ghastly, leaden motions of the Ragwitch’s straw-stuffed limbs.

But even the slightest movement took more effort than usual, and Julia shuddered, realizing that she must be getting more and more used to feeling the Ragwitch’s body, so that she could hardly remember how to work her own. And if Her body was becoming familiar, perhaps in time, Her
mind might do the same thing…and Julia would be totally consumed.

Julia shivered at the thought, deliberately intensifying the feeling, wriggling her backbone to let the shiver climb all the way up the back of her neck to make her hair stand on end. The Ragwitch never shivered. And Her hair was flat and rancid, caked to the sides of that evil face—nothing could make it stand on end.

“Shivering?” said a voice behind Julia. “But then, you cannot be cold here.”

The voice was not the Ragwitch’s. It was a kind voice, full of warmth, totally unlike the chilling, biting feel of Her voice, or the thoughts She sent to retrieve Julia from her refuge. It was a human voice, the voice of the woman from the green-panelled, black-beamed house of Bevallan.

Julia turned around joyfully, expecting to see the green-robed woman, her white hair floating above her, like Julia’s own. There was no one there—but in the distance, a yellow light flickered where there had never been one before. It was like the light of the globe, but softer and weaker, and far smaller.

Eagerly, Julia began to swim towards it, praying that this wasn’t some sadistic trick of the Ragwitch to raise within her a hope that couldn’t exist.

Close by, the yellow light came from an unsteady fire which flickered, occasionally flaring, only to die down into a dull yellow glow, and then grow back to a reasonably constant flame.

But Julia had no eyes for the light. For around it, in a circle about three meters wide, was a ring of holly, each sprig cleverly woven together, the red berries outermost. Within the ring, there was green grass, shorn close enough to make the finest croquet lawn or golfing green. And next to the flame was a rowan tree. A springtime tree, all covered with white flowers. As Julia watched, the tree shook slightly, and the flowers trembled as if touched by a light-fingered breeze. The flame flickered too, and Julia blinked as it flared back after the sudden wind.

Then, instead of a rowan, the green-gowned lady was there, sitting cross-legged on the turf. She smiled at Julia and gestured for her to step over the holly and into the ring.

“Now we can talk freely,” said the old lady, as Julia carefully stepped onto the springy turf. “Sit down, child.”

Julia sat down obediently, relishing the feel of the soft turf. She pushed her hand into the soft dirt beneath, squishing it between her fingers—before realizing what she was doing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, hastily wiping her hand on the turf. “I wasn’t thinking…”

“Don’t worry,” the lady said calmly. “Feeling it will make it stronger—will make
you
stronger, and better able to resist the Ragwitch.”

Julia shivered at the mention of Her name, and instinctively looked about, fearing the sudden
intrusion of Her thoughts, and the destruction of this small green circle and the old woman. Like She had destroyed Bevallan, and…

“But you were in the house,” began Julia. “And She broke the rowan tree, and…She called you a Half-Witch…”

“She can make mistakes, you know,” said the old lady. “I may look and act like a Half-Witch, but I am both more and less than that. And very, very different. That body the Ragwitch killed out there was not me—though I could be easily slain if She perceived my true nature.”

“Then, when she bent over you…your body…” said Julia, shivering again, despite the cosy warmth of the fire. “You weren’t really there…”

“Didn’t feel a thing!” declared the old woman cheerfully. “But enough of this! We have not yet exchanged names, as I am told all prisoners do upon sharing a cell.”

“I’m Julia,” said Julia.

“And I am Lyssa,” replied the old woman. “I came here with eyes wide-open, hoping to find the truth behind this…thing…that had risen in the North. And I find that it is far, far worse than I expected. And I also found you—to add mystery to peril. But a brief mystery, I hope—if you can tell me how you came to this place.”

“I’m not sure I should talk here…” said Julia, nervously. She felt sure the Ragwitch’s thoughts would touch upon her soon, and speaking Her
name would somehow bring them closer. Lyssa seemed to feel her anxiety, for she gestured to the holly ring, and began to sing, in a high, clear voice:

“An old rhyme but true enough,” continued Lyssa, though Julia felt that she had left part of the song unsung. “If you know the way of it. The Ragwitch cannot see or hear us inside the braided holly. But you cannot stay too long, or She will notice your absence, and break my wards with Her dark thoughts.”

Julia looked back out into the fluid that seemed to stretch endlessly away. In the distance, the globe pulsated, its white light now seeming harsh and cruel compared to the comforting yellow flame. Across from her, Lyssa smiled, and Julia wondered how anyone could smile, lost within the strange prison of the Ragwitch’s mind.

“I smile because that is all I can do,” said Lyssa, and Julia realized she must have spoken aloud.

“You should smile too,” continued Lyssa, reaching out to touch the corner of Julia’s mouth with her smooth, warm fingers. “We are both still alive, and that is more than many can say, after Bevallan.”

Julia sat silent, not answering. She was indirectly responsible for all those poor people—and
any others that might get in the way of the Ragwitch’s dark designs. Which was probably everybody in the whole country—or at least, all the good people, and anything that wasn’t cruel and monstrous like the Ragwitch Herself.

“I wish,” whispered Julia. “I just wish I had never…”

“Sssh!” interrupted Lyssa, suddenly getting to her feet. “Look at the globe!”

Julia snapped her head round to look, and saw the globe suddenly flash brighter than it ever had before. Dark, sickly-looking purples and greens clouded its surface before vanishing in a flash of light, only to re-form again in an instant.

“What’s happening?” asked Julia, automatically looking at Lyssa and expecting an answer. But Lyssa was no longer standing next to her—she had crouched down, and was mumbling to herself. As Julia watched, Lyssa seemed to fall inwards on herself, her skin crackling and folding, her arms thinning out and stretching—and then, there was only a white-flowered rowan next to the yellow flame. But Lyssa’s voice lingered in the air, like the last, fading notes of a chance-struck harp.

“The Ragwitch is being attacked, Julia. You must see what is happening…”

“But I can’t!” wailed Julia. “She always takes me back! I can’t do it by myself!”

“Touch the globe…” whispered the leaves of the rowan. “Touch the globe…”

And then there was silence in the ring of woven
holly, save for the merest whisper of the yellow flame. Off in the fluid, Julia swam towards the globe—eager to see, yet at the same time dreading what might be there.

P
AUL SHIVERED AS
the balloon hit another freezing downdraft. He wasn’t really cold in his heavy cloak, but every time they hit cold air, the balloon dropped at least thirty meters—and the mountains were very close underneath.

The balloon dropped again, and Paul felt his stomach lurch—obviously it felt like staying up while the rest of his body went down. It was like a particularly fast lift—but much more disturbing. After all, the balloon wasn’t held up by cables and huge winches. In fact, Paul didn’t know what was holding it up. At first, he’d assumed it was a hot-air balloon, but it didn’t have a burner to keep the hot air going into the gas-bag. If the gas-bag was a gas-bag…every time Paul looked up, he thought he could see dim shapes moving about behind the yellow silk.

“Quigin…” said Paul, once the balloon settled again. “What keeps this balloon up?”

“Things—creatures,” said Quigin. “I’ve got some more in a jar somewhere, in case we lose some through a rip or tear. They’re quite interesting, close up.”

Paul shuddered, looking down at the interior of the basket. All along the sides, various leather bags were attached to the wicker framework, each one labelled with a small picture, representing its contents. Leasel the hare sat in one corner, chewing on a pile of dandelions, and ignoring the sudden rises and falls of the balloon. Every time they hit a particularly nasty crosswind, she just fastened her teeth into the leather bands that bound the wicker basket together.

“We’ll be there by midnight,” said Quigin, cheerfully. “And the moon is three-quarters full tonight—so they will be flying.”

“Who will be flying?” asked Paul anxiously, suddenly thinking about moons, bats and horror movies. “And is midnight a good time to arrive?”

“It’s as good as any other, isn’t it?” said Quigin. “It’ll be bright with the moon, so we can…
look out!”

Suddenly, the balloon dropped again, the basket swinging madly from side to side. Paul fell to the left and then to the right, barely managing to grab a side-rope, to avoid being tumbled over the side. Quigin fell past him, but Paul managed to grab
him for a few seconds, just long enough for the Friend of Beasts to catch hold of the edge of the basket.

“Thanks,” gasped Quigin, immediately wedging himself between two of the leather bags to lick his rope-burned hands. “Mind you, I wouldn’t have fallen far. That last drop’s put us right over the top of Aillghill mountain. If you look now, you can see Aillghill Force—the waterfall.”

Paul reluctantly got to his feet, being careful to hang on with both hands, and wedge his feet under the bags. Then, taking a deep breath, he looked down.

Quigin was right—he would have only dropped about ten meters. Directly below, a rather flat-topped mountain reached up to meet them. Clad in ice and snow, it flashed under the light of the evening sun, so bright, Paul had to half-close his eyes to see the beginning of the waterfall.

A few hundred meters below, a great spume of ice burst out from the mountain. Made up of thousands of frozen strands, it sparkled like the most delicate glasswork. High up, only a little water trickled down this icy tracery, but as each tiny rivulet combined, the fall grew stronger. Thousands of meters below, the waters finally crashed together in full flood, raising a vast and impenetrable mist.

“The mist,” said Quigin, pointing dangerously over the side, “only goes away about once every
hundred years when there is a particularly bad winter, and
all
of the waterfall freezes, not just the top part. They say there’s caves full of treasure down there, under it all.”

Paul stared after Quigin’s pointing hand, and thought momentarily of treasure, sunken in the mist. Then he looked back up at the clear sky and the setting sun. Another night in this strange world, thought Paul, shivering—and where might Julia be, awaiting nightfall and the three-quarter moon?

“What do we do now?” he asked, forgetting about the treasure. “Does the Master of Air come here?”

“He may,” replied Quigin, still staring into the mist. He waved his arm vaguely about the sky. “There’s certainly enough air around.”

“What do you mean—he may?” asked Paul, who was beginning to wonder whether Quigin really did know anything about the Master of Air. He obviously knew little enough about ballooning.

“He may,” replied Quigin, standing up to look at the sky. “But what I had in mind is to follow a guide.”

“A guide?”

“Yes,” replied Quigin. “And there’s the first of them now.”

Paul followed his gaze, looking into the sky. At first, all he could see was a brown speck a little below them and at least a kilometer away. But it was closing rapidly, easily climbing, spiralling up
with the change of a single wing tip. A hawk, or an eagle, thought Paul, though not a very big one.

“I’ll have to screech and whistle,” said Quigin, apologetically. “I’ve told Leasel, but you’ll probably have to hold her.”

“Sure,” said Paul, kneeling down next to the dandelion-chewing hare. He stroked her ears, feeling the soft grey fur, then took hold of her securely around the neck, as Quigin took a very, very deep breath.

The resulting series of hawk-cries scared Paul almost more than Leasel. The hare started as Quigin began each sequence, but Paul’s hands seemed to calm her. Paul kept expecting Quigin to run out of breath, but the Friend of Beasts kept up the calls for what seemed like several minutes.

Then a hawk was perched on the rope-rail, folding its wings, its golden-brown eyes peering hungrily into the basket. Quigin chirrupped at it, a strange sort of half-clucking—and it turned to face him.

Squatting on the floor of the basket, Paul couldn’t quite see the hawk, but Quigin seemed to be staring at it and it was meeting his gaze. Then, like he’d done with Leasel, Quigin began to talk in that soft tone that was like the whisper of a whisper. Occasionally, the hawk made a slight whistling noise, but Paul felt certain that the bird was talking to Quigin through its eyes alone. Finally Quigin glanced away, and the hawk half-lidded its eyes,
and stretched its wings a little.

“Well,” said Quigin. “She’ll take us to the Wind Moot, and there the Master of Air may receive us.”

“What else did she talk about?” asked Paul.

“Mice and sparrows,” replied Quigin. “But at least I managed to find out where they hold the Wind Moot—and get us invited there.”

“But what is the Wind Moot?” asked Paul.

“It’s a sort of meeting place for birds,” replied Quigin. “I think I can remember how Cagael described it, from
The Book of Beasts
, ‘High above certain mountains, where the currents of air run both cold and warm, to climb or fall through the clouds, the Birds of the Claw travel the way from East to West, and under Sun, or Light of Moon, the Wind Moot meets…’”

“The Birds of the Claw?”

“Oh, falcons, hawks, eagles,” explained Quigin. “Some of the larger owls, if the Moot is under moonlight. Sometimes other birds are called, ravens, swifts and suchlike. But it’s mostly for the hunters.”

“What do they do there?” asked Paul, thinking of a great cloud of birds, circling around, high in the air, for no apparent reason.

“They talk,” replied Quigin. “Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never been to one myself.”

“Oh,” said Paul, looking at the hawk’s cruel, curved beak, and remembering the giant crow that had attacked him on the midden so many days ago
and a world away. “How big do these birds get? I mean…will it be safe?”

“I don’t know,” said Quigin cheerfully. “But it’s bound to be interesting!”

The hawk seemed to agree with Quigin, because it whistled briefly, and flew up, circling the basket before slowly flying off towards the setting sun. It flew slowly, and circled back several times—obviously waiting to guide them.

Quigin whistled again, and the hawk started climbing, up towards the first of the evening stars. The Friend of Beasts watched the bird’s effortless flight, and then addressed the balloon above, making some ritual gestures with his fingers and hands.

Paul watched, entranced, as the shadowy figures inside the gas-bag swelled and assumed a slightly orange hue. The balloon rose steadily in silence, following the hawk up into the night sky.

“I think I’ve finally got this balloon sorted out,” said Quigin, happily. “Look, there’s another hawk—and there, some sort of eagle…”

Julia screamed as she joined the Ragwitch’s senses, a long, inward cry of pain. Normally, it just felt unnatural and somehow unclean, but this time, pain lanced through her and she could see only blurred, cloudy visions through the Ragwitch’s eyes.

Slowly, the pain eased and the mist cleared from her sight. Julia felt the now familiar bloated limbs
and dulled senses of the Ragwitch, and then Her thoughts burst into her mind, cold and biting.

“Pain, Julia? But it is not I that cause you pain. I am not unkind to those that serve me well. As you have begun to do.”

Julia didn’t answer, letting the dull ache in her head fade away, so she could see properly. Dimly, she felt that the Ragwitch was pleased with her, a prospect that was terrifying. What could she have done that helped the Ragwitch?

Gradually, Julia’s sight cleared, and she saw that they stood upon a road, a thin, gravelled road, bordered on each side by lightly wooded fields that looked as if they might once have been open farmland. Ahead, the road wound up through a clear expanse of short, greyish bushes towards a great cleft in the hills beyond, a jagged gorge of off-white rock, dripping with greenish water.

The Ragwitch gazed towards the gorge, and so, of course, did Julia. But they could see only a little way into the dark passage, where the road dipped down past the white stone bluffs.

Only then did Julia realize it was night. Instead of the sun, a huge three-quarter moon hung low over the gorge—almost directly above it, but not quite in the right place to light up the depths below.

The Ragwitch moved Her head, straw spilling from the rounded folds at Her neck, and Julia saw that She stood on the road alone—but under the
shadow of the trees, the Gwarulch lurked, and the Angarling stood as silent as the stillest trees. And there was another shape, black in the blackest shadow. The Ragwitch beckoned, and it stepped forward into the moonlight. Julia recognized Oroch, and hoped this was not another of his failures—she didn’t want to even begin to see what lay under those tar-black bandages.

“Oroch,” hissed the Ragwitch. “Have the Gwarulch returned?”

“No, Mistress,” said Oroch, squirming. “First two and twenty, and then four and forty went down to the Steps. But none have returned. And the Meepers have lost fifteen of their number, and now they will not fly.”

“Order them aloft, or twice that number will burn!” spat the Ragwitch, menacingly. She leaned over Oroch, and he stepped back, slipping on the thick gravel.

“That which holds the Namyr Steps is not for them,” continued the Ragwitch, spittle dripping from Her red-painted lips. “I have been attacked, Oroch—they have dared to attack Me! And now, they will answer for it!”

Oroch nodded fearfully, hesitantly squeaking out, “But what is it, oh Mistress? Is it…dangerous?”

Julia felt a strange amusement ripple through the Ragwitch, before She answered. “It has already cast a spell against Me, Oroch. But it is only one,
and not of the First Rank. And what of spells, when all that strike Me first strike the child?”

As She spoke, Julia felt the Ragwitch’s amusement increase, and then, She was cackling aloud, while Oroch giggled, and the Gwarulch in the trees snorted their agreement at whatever She enjoyed.

And inside, She whispered to Julia under the cackling, “And so, my rescuer, you are curse and spell-trap, chantward and shield. And those who may strive against Me, will wound and pierce a child. And you will feel the pain of every spell against Me. You will feel the pain…”

The Ragwitch stopped cackling, and slowly began to move down towards the gorge called the Namyr Steps. Behind Her, Oroch capered, still giggling; the Angarling lumbered after Her, and the Gwarulch streamed through the trees on either side, pausing only to rend any small beast or nocturnal bird that fled too late. Above, Meepers flew as far back as they dared, fearing to go on, but obedient to their Mistress, who was their greatest fear.

“She’s coming,” said Thruan, holding out his thumbs which were twitching, seemingly without his control. “We had best leave while we still can.”

The woman who had come up beside him shook her head. “That’s what I came up to tell you—we can’t get out. There is a Black Veil across the last of the Steps. Lyalbec touched it, and it withered his arm.” She grimaced, showing an old white scar that ran from the corner of her mouth to one of the
face-bars of her helmet. “Fortunately, Lyalbec is left-handed. He can still use a sword. If that will do us any good…?”

She phrased the last part as a question, and Thruan hesitated a second before answering, black eyebrows meeting above his wide nose, a frown of puzzlement rather than deep thought.

“I think swords and arrows will play a little part, before the night is done. But only a little, and it will not be enough for us. I am now sure that it is the Ragwitch we are facing—once North-Queen and Witch—for there is a great and evil power there. And yet…my first spell against Her was not countered, nor exactly turned…”

A whistle higher up the gorge interrupted him, and the woman picked up her bow, and loosened the basket-hilted sword at her side.

“I’ll go up now,” she said. “If whatever comes down the Steps is flesh and blood, we’ll stop it. If not—well, at least Aenle got through before the Black Veil formed. Caer Calbore will not go unwarned.”

“My thanks, Captain,” said Master Thruan. “I will do what I can.”

She nodded and said, “It is well we met you going north. If one must fight, and on a stricken field, it is easier to bear in company. Farewell.”

Thruan watched her climbing up the limestone steps that gave the Namyr gorge its name. On either side of the passage, men and women rose up
from their brief rest, buckling on breastplates over buff coats, or strapping on their helmets with the three-barred visors. Higher up, Gwarulch corpses grinned, either feathered with arrows or slain by Thruan’s Magic, more chilling to them than the sharpest steel.