The Ragwitch

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 dreamt 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 metres 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 kilometre. 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 further, 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 moustache 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 for 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 to 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 recognise 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 non-existent 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 metres up, on the thin needlepoint 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.

As the Calling Scream died away, the moon’s first light crept across the ground. It slowly inched forward, crossing the sparkling rock of the Spire, to light up the ground before it: a sunken bowl of that same glassy, lifeless rock. But long ago the rock had been shaped into tiers of seats, which wound erratically around and around in a giant spiral, as though shaped by a drunken architect.

Then the Ragwitch’s Calling Scream was answered from the Terrace-Hole below by bellows and screams, mad hyena-like laughter and shrill whistlings.

“Now you see them,” whispered the Ragwitch, Her thoughts battering at the silent Julia. “Do you like them?”

Julia didn’t answer, horrified at the sight of the creatures that thronged in the moonlight below. The Ragwitch smiled again and looked down at a particular group of followers.

Tall, sallow, humanoid in shape, they had patches of scale underlying their jaws and throats, and out-thrust upper jaws, with dog-like fangs made for rending flesh. Their arms were long and gibbon-like, ending in yellow-taloned hands. Their piggy, deep-set eyes looked up at the Ragwitch in adoration.

“The Gwarulch,” muttered the Ragwitch. “Sneaking beasts–hungry for meat, but not too eager to fight for it. Except in My service.

Julia shuddered, feeling the Ragwitch’s thoughts of blood and killing. And not just thoughts, but memories too. Stark, frightening images of past slaughters, the Ragwitch triumphant, feasting…

Julia screamed again, forcing the Ragwitch’s memories away. But still she could not close her eyes, and the Ragwitch looked down upon more of Her creatures, awaiting orders in the Terrace-Hole below.

“Angarling,” She told Julia, mentally pointing out a group of huge, pale white stones, roughly cut columns. Julia had taken them for statues or part of the rock terraces. Through the Ragwitch’s eyes and memory, she now saw that on each of the huge stones was the weathered carving of an ancient face–full of sorrow and torment, anger and evil, all etched into the white stone.

“Angarling!” shouted the Ragwitch, and the stones moved. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, they tramped to the base of the Spire. There they halted, and then came a great, welling boom which drowned out the cries of all the Ragwitch’s lesser servants.

A dark shadow suddenly fell across the Ragwitch’s face and Julia quivered, though no reflex of the Ragwitch moved. Her huge leathery head slowly tilted back, greasy yellow locks of dank hair falling around Her shoulders. Up above, a creature fluttered, its wings casting a shadow right across the throne.

“The Meepers,” whispered the Ragwitch.

It looks like a bat, thought Julia for an instant, but at the same time, she knew it did not. It had the wings and furry body of a bat, but the head was a fanged nightmare–a scaly mixture of piranha and serpent, with row upon row of gleaming teeth. And it was thirty times bigger than any bat, with wings that seemed wider than the sail on the yacht Julia had seen only the day before.