The Ragwitch (9 page)

Thruan watched, counting, till all thirty of the survivors were spread out below the topmost step, readying their bows, laying out blue-feathered arrows for a last stand. Then he looked to the pool of water on the seventy-seventh step and bent his mind to the southeast. He hoped to have one last look at his balloon, and perhaps learn more of the significance of this…Paul.

Slowly, the water began to cloud, and Thruan saw a field of stars behind some scudding wisps of cloud. Birds of prey wheeled across the sky, hundreds of them, circling a yellow-lozenged balloon. Two figures stood within the basket: one, Cagael’s apprentice, Quigin, and the other, presumably, Paul…

Another whistle came from above, and the vision faded. Thruan turned from the pool, and began to climb the steps, readying his scant powers. Already bowstrings twanged above, and Gwarulch screams echoed in the gorge. But the Gwarulch were not alone, and Thruan’s thumbs twitched in dire warning as the Ragwitch reached the topmost step, death and darkness rolling like a cloud before Her.

T
HIS IS FANTASTIC
!” shouted Paul—he had to shout, over the shrill cries and whistles of all the birds that surrounded the balloon. Everywhere he looked, there were fierce-eyed hawks and falcons, wheeling and screeching like a flock of some strange, sharp-taloned seagulls.

The balloon, like the birds, was riding on a warm updraft. Looking up, it seemed to Paul that he was falling, falling towards the brilliant, three-quarter moon, and the clear, steady twinkling of the stars, riding in their strange constellations with even stranger names.

Paul had never thought that so many birds of prey would gather in such a small space—from tiniest hawk to the largest eagle, spiralling upwards to some airy and mystical location.

Quigin loved it, of course, Paul had been unable
to get him to listen to anything—he was too intent on the roar of bird-calls. Every now and then, he nodded his head, and mumbled, “Of course…but I knew that…well, at least a bit…” Then he would screech in return, and even more birds would gather around the balloon. One old eagle (it had a bald head) even went so far as to hitch a ride, gripping the rim of the basket with talons the size of Paul’s fingers. It watched him with an unblinking eye, then turned its attention back to the sky, either not noticing or ignoring the terrified Leasel, who lurked in the darkest corner of the basket, surrounded by the solid leather bags.

Suddenly, the balloon lurched, falling off the updraft. The birds stopped climbing too, and fell silent, until the only noise was the rush of air from thousands of wings, and the rasp of Paul’s and Quigin’s breath, hot and steaming in the high, cold air.

Paul sneaked a glance over the side of the basket, shivering as he realized how high up they were. Aillghill mountain was just a tiny white speck below, brilliant in the moonlight. The world seemed to curve away forever on every side, and for the first time in his life Paul knew the world was really round.

Still looking down, Paul felt his head become light and somehow disconnected, and for an instant, he felt like jumping off, to float above the enormous world below. But the basket lurched
again, and he looked back up, grabbed the railing, and took a deep breath to regain normality.

“High up, aren’t we?” said Quigin unnecessarily. “I’ve never been up this high before. Or at night. And the birds…I’ve learnt more in the last hour than in the last three months…why, Master Cagael will be…”

“Quigin,” interrupted Paul, in a small, rather shaky voice. “Do you think that might be the Master of Air?”

Quigin stopped in mid-sentence, and looked where Paul was pointing with a hand that seemed to shiver with something more than cold. Paul was pointing towards the moon, and at first Quigin couldn’t see anything. Then something passed between him and the moonlight. Something swift and dark that blotted out most of the moon’s three-quarter disc.

Quigin nodded in answer to Paul’s question, but Paul wasn’t watching. He was thinking, if that is the Master of Air, what am I supposed to do? And he remembered Tanboule’s words, a dim and hardly remembered warning: “…and indeed, they may put troubles in your way…”

The dark shape grew closer and closer, still following a line directly in front of the moon. Squinting against the light, Paul could vaguely make out the thing’s shape, a shape that became more clearly defined as it drew even closer with each beat of its vast wings.

The birds started calling again as it approached—softly, in time to the beat of the larger eagle’s wings. It was obviously a most respectful welcome.

Then the dark shape was level with them. It was no longer blocking out the moonlight, but shining in it: an enormous eagle, with sky-blue feathers that ruffled in its wake; beak and talons as silver as the moon, and eyes as black as coal.

Paul stared at it, thinking its body alone was bigger than his school bus, and the wings were longer than his uncle’s glider. His throat dried up, and he felt a pulse of fear, much like when Ornware had stood above him with his bloody, rune-carved spear. Then he had lain in the shadow of antlers, but now he faced the far greater shadow of the eagle’s wings and an awesome, more elemental power.

The great bird circled the basket, watching, while Paul opened and shut his mouth several times, and Quigin stood gaping. Then, Paul caught a glint in the eagle’s eye, a spark of silent laughter, and he suddenly felt everything would be all right.

“Hello!” shouted Paul across the winds. The eagle checked its motion, and began to hover in place, with a constant beat of wings. It seemed to consider Paul for a moment, and then…dissolved. Slowly, each blue feather became transparent, as though the color were being drained from a stained-glass window, leaving only tracery behind. And then even the vague outline of an eagle vanished, pieces
tumbling towards the balloon like chaff in a breeze.

“Slugweed,” whispered Quigin, in a tone of vast amazement. “Wort and Sheepsbane.”

Paul just stared at the empty space where the eagle had been. Already, the last fading feathers were gone, but in their place, Paul could just see something taking shape, like mist rising from the ground.

“What should I do?” whispered Paul to Quigin, as the shape opposite them began taking on a more substantial form. It was starting to look like an enormous human head, at least twenty meters high, with flowing hair and a beard that trailed below, blowing back into the space normally occupied by a neck.

“You could say hello again,” whispered Quigin. “I mean, when you said it last time, the eagle fell apart…”

“But I want its help,” Paul whispered back, controlling a strong urge to join Leasel in the dark corner, and close his eyes. The head was getting features now, and they didn’t look particularly nice.

“I could try hawk-whistling at it,” said Quigin doubtfully. He looked around at the column of birds, which were silent again, after their greeting cries. They seemed undisturbed by the appearance of the head.

“I suppose you…” began Paul, when the head
suddenly moved. Its nose (which had only just appeared) began to twitch, and the mouth began to yaw open, revealing a cavernous, mist-walled void, complete with tongue and tonsils.

“It’s going to sneeze!” shouted Paul, ducking down into the basket, with Quigin close behind. Great gusts of wind sucked into the mouth, the ropes and wrappings of the basket whipping about in the sudden vacuum. Paul and Quigin shut their eyes, held onto the basket, and waited for the mammoth explosion of a twenty-meter-high head’s sneeze. But at the last moment, it held the sneeze in, and gave a gentle sigh instead.

The air was suddenly calm, and the basket still. A great voice boomed out with a gentle rush of warm air:

“I am the North Wind and the South Wind, the Wind from West and East. I am the still air, the fiercest zephyr, the dusty wind from a tomb. I am the bearer of birds, and the carrier of clouds. I am the Master of Air.”

Paul gulped twice, and slowly stood up, unconsciously bending his knees so he didn’t have to show anything but his eyes and mouth above the rim of the basket.

“Hi!” he shouted nervously. “I’m Paul…Your…um…Mastership. Tanboule sent me to you…at least he said…”

“What did he say?” boomed the Master of Air, or at least his physical manifestation, the Head. Paul
noticed it had no teeth—but it had the yellow, predatory eyes of an eagle.

“He said you could help me,” shouted Paul, wishing he knew what to say. “He said that you could help me get Julia back from the Ragwitch.”

The Head’s eyes widened at this, the lids pulling back and then closing again, as the Master of Air narrowed his eyes, and considered the tiny speck of a boy before him.

“Why should I help you?” asked the Head, in a less booming, and slower tone.

Paul bit his lip, and looked at Quigin for advice. But Quigin just smiled, and shrugged. Not for the first time, Paul wished Aleyne was there to help him. Or Julia…but then, if Julia was here…he wouldn’t be…

“Well?” said the Head, in the slightly impatient tone of a teacher asking a very easy question. “Well?”

“Well, just…” began Paul, trying to think of a reason the Air itself would help him. But what could possibly influence the Master of Air?

“You should help,” he continued, “you should help…just…
because!”

Even as he shouted “because!,” Paul felt a terrible sense of failure. I’ve come all this way, he thought, through all sorts of terrible things, and when I get the first chance to really help Julia, I blow it! “Because”—what sort of answer is that?

“Because?” rumbled the Head, gusts of warm air
rolling out with every syllable. The gusts became stronger, and the Head repeated Paul’s answer several times, each time stretching the word over several breaths, till it was a series of unrecognizable coughs.

Then Paul realized the Master of Air was laughing.

“You don’t have to laugh at me!” shouted Paul, suddenly angry at this vast head, and the smallness of himself and his answer. “You could just say it was no good! You don’t have to laugh!”

The Head slowly stopped laughing, and the huge yellow eyes once again gazed at Paul.

“Your answer is sufficient,” said the Master of Air, his great mouth spreading with every word. “‘Because’ is as vast as the Air itself, and like the Air, it covers all else. I like it. And…because…of that, I will help you. Cup your hands, Paul.”

Paul stared back at the Head, wondering if he’d heard right. It was like guessing every question in a multiple choice exam, and getting ten out of ten. Slowly, he cupped his hands.

At first, nothing happened, save for a tickling sensation in his palms. The tickling grew, and became a breeze, contained within his hands alone. And then it became an icy gale that forced his arms back and forth, with the strength of it in his grasp. But he didn’t let go, and when the gale blew away to nothing, he opened his cupped hands. Inside was a single sky-blue feather as light as the air.

“That,” whispered the Head, “is the Breath. Guard it well, and use it at your need.”

“But what will it do for Julia?” asked Paul anxiously, tucking the feather into his belt-pouch. “And what do you mean by the Breath?”

The Head only smiled, and the birds began to take voice again, screeching and whistling. But there was no answer from the balloon, none of the enthusiastic shrieks of Quigin, trying to master his trade. In fact, as Paul looked around, there was no sign of Quigin at all. At some time while Paul was talking to the Master of Air, the Friend of Beasts must have fallen from the basket.

Then Paul heard Quigin’s voice, high above his head, just like when they’d first met. Looking up, Paul saw that Quigin lay directly under the balloon, and was looking intently through one of the yellow silk panels.

“What are you doing?” asked Paul. “I thought you’d fallen out. I wish you wouldn’t—”

“Paul,” interrupted Quigin, sounding very puzzled. “I think that Master Thruan’s dead.”

“What?” asked Paul.

“I think that Master Thruan’s dead,” replied Quigin, frowning. “All the lifting spirits are leaving the balloon, and they couldn’t do that if Master Thruan was alive…though now I come to think about it, he did say not to fly too high…”

“You mean we’re going to crash?” shouted Paul. “Can’t you stop the spirits leaving?” Already he could see orange shapes drifting out through the
silken panels—and the balloon did seem to be dropping.

“No, I can’t,” said Quigin. “Still, at least we got to see the Wind Moot!”

“Can’t you get the birds to hold us up or something?” shouted Paul. The balloon was definitely falling, and so many of the spirits were leaving the balloon it was starting to collapse into itself. And to make matters worse, the Master of Air’s Head sounded like it was going to sneeze again!

“They’re not listening!” shouted Quigin, after a series of frantic whistles. “They’re arguing about the right to ride the Northwest Winds!”

“Try again!” Paul shouted back, anxiously looking between the balloon and the Head. Although they were dropping rapidly, the Head was keeping level with them—and it kept sucking the balloon closer with every intake of breath, the mouth gaping open wider and wider.

“It’s going to sneeze!” shouted Paul, as the balloon swung up against the Head, the basket tickling its nose.

“Uh…uh…uh,” gasped the Head, and then it sneezed, an enormous explosion of air and sound that deafened Paul and Quigin, and picked up the balloon, throwing it through the air, faster than the swiftest hawk, out over the eastern sea, across two hundred kilometers or more.

“His name was Thruan,” said Julia, shivering. She dug her hands into the comforting turf,
adding, “He was the last one that She got. She just…She just looked at him, and said his name, and he…he was dead.”

Lyssa nodded, and rested a cool hand on Julia’s forehead. It felt odd, but somehow comforting, like the pleasant shade of a tree on a warm summer’s day.

“Lie still, Julia,” said Lyssa, bringing up her other hand to push Julia carefully onto the turf. “Lie still. Nothing can harm you here, behind the braided holly.”

Julia closed her eyes and relaxed, feeling Lyssa’s hand stroking her forehead, across and up to the right, and then across and up to the left, like a longways cross. Then, Lyssa began to sing, a gentle lullaby of ships and the sea and the rolling of the grey-green waves. She began to count the waves, and Julia tried to follow, but was asleep before the count reached twenty.

When Julia awoke, Lyssa was standing next to her, watching the globe. She was singing to herself again, but it was a song that echoed power, and was not at all a lullaby.

“Good morning,” said Lyssa, breaking off her song as she noticed Julia’s open, if sleepy eyes. “If it is morning in the outside world.”

“I think so,” mumbled Julia. “How long have I been asleep?”

Lyssa smiled, and said, “I do not think Time runs true here, Julia. But perhaps, half a day.”

Julia nodded, wondering at how rested she felt
after such a relatively short sleep. Then she remembered that it was her first real sleep since before she found the Ragwitch—since then, she had only managed brief naps riddled with waking nightmares. She felt hungry for the first time too, but this passed quickly, and soon she felt the familiar dulled appetite of her strange life—neither hungry nor content, but something unpleasantly in between.