The Ragwitch

The Meeper straightened its wings and dropped past the Spire, falling away to the right. Others followed it, and the Ragwitch laughed as they hissed and bit at each other for their place in the line.

Several hundred of the Meepers flew past in what seemed like several hours. Julia soon got more bored than frightened, and found that she could peer out of the corners of “her” eyes–perhaps even seeing things the Ragwitch could not. The creatures below disturbed her less now, and she began to count them–with a growing feeling of unease. She counted (or guessed at) over a thousand Gwarulch, at least a hundred of the statue-like Angarling and many hundreds of Meepers. And the thoughts of the Ragwitch were of fire and blood, death and destruction…Julia hastily tried to do sums in her head, barricading her mind against the memories–particularly the eating…

“Gwarulch, Angarling and Meepers!” shouted the Ragwitch, Her voice sharp and malevolent, echoed everywhere by the black stone. “But where is Oroch? Who is Oroch to disdain Me when I stand upon My Spire?”

Down below, the Gwarulch shifted uneasily, muttering in their guttural language. Above, the Meepers flew in circles, angrily whistling at this Oroch who failed the Ragwitch. Only the Angarling were silent, white shapes impervious to any thoughts save the command of their Mistress.

“Again, I say,” spat the Ragwitch, “Oroch! Your Mistress calls!”

Inside the Spire, a rock cracked–and then another. Through the Ragwitch’s straw-stuffed feet, Julia felt the Spire shiver, and for a giddy second was certain She would fall–that they would fall.

Then the Spire steadied and a single block of stone fell from halfway up, to smash unnoticed among the ranks of the silent Angarling. Julia watched, transfixed, as a hand emerged from the hole–a barely recognisable hand, wrapped in what looked like tar-cloth, or linen soaked in treacle.

It was followed by another hand and then a head, a faceless, cloth-wrapped head, that tilted back and forth like a broken toy. Then it steadied and opened its mouth, a red, wet maw, stark and toothless against the black cloth.

“Oroch was trapped, Mistress,” the thing moaned. “Locked in the Spire I built for you. But their work could not keep me when You called.”

“Oroch,” said the Ragwitch with satisfaction. “Come to Me.”

The Ragwitch held out a single three-fingered hand, in gross parody of a handshake. She flexed Her fingers and Julia felt a thrill run through them, a spark of sudden power. Quick as that spark, Oroch was there, holding Her fingers with both his tar-black, bandaged hands. His legs scrabbled for a second, then he relaxed, swinging slightly from side to side. Julia marvelled at the Ragwitch’s strength, for Oroch was at least two metres tall, though thin and spindly.

“Your power is not diminished, oh Mistress,” gasped Oroch, his red maw panting.

“It is increased!” shouted the Ragwitch, suddenly throwing Oroch in the air and catching him as he hurtled back down. “Now that I have a body of undying cloth, it is increased!”

4. Gwarulch by Night / The Raqwitch Looks to the South (#ulink_2e521000-a4bb-5ddd-a34e-89f1899d4d23)

“THE AWE-GUH-AY-ER,” PAUL said once again, trying to match Aleyne’s pronunciation. The two of them sat at the prow of the River Daughter, which was rapidly making progress down that difficultly named river, aided by the current and the poling of Ennan and Amos, the brothers who owned the narrowboat.

As Aleyne had expected, Paul had slept through two nights and a day, waking only that morning, rested if no less anxious. They had immediately embarked on the River Daughter and the pair had spent the morning talking. Paul had spoken of his “adventures”, and of Julia and the Ragwitch; he’d also learnt that Aleyne was in fact Sir Aleyne, a Knight of the Court at Yendre–though from Aleyne’s description of what he did, he sounded more like a cross between a policeman and a park ranger, and he didn’t look at all like the knights in books or films. Aleyne had a particular love of the river Awgaer and spent much of his time on its waters, or in the villages that shared the river banks with the wildfowl and water rats.

“Perhaps you should just call it ‘the river’,” said Aleyne, laughing at Paul’s eighth attempt. “I hope you can do better with Rhysamarn–the Wise might refuse to see you if you can’t pronounce the name of their favourite mountain.”

“Really?” asked Paul, who was often taken in by Julia’s jokes, but Aleyne was already laughing, his black moustache quivering with each chuckle.

“No, lad–just my joke! But the Wise are strange, it’s true, and Rhysamarn is a strange mountain–or so they say.”

“You’ve never been there?”

“Well, I have almost been there,” replied Aleyne, “but I didn’t see the Wise. It was some years ago, when I was more foolish and rather vain. I thought to ask the Wise…well, I thought to gain some insight into procuring the love of a certain lady–a passing fancy, nothing more.”

“What happened?” asked Paul eagerly, hoping that Aleyne (who was looking rather sheepish) wouldn’t avoid the question and trail off into a completely different story.

“To tell the truth,” continued Aleyne, “I was halfway up the mountain when my horse brushed a tree and knocked down a wasps’ nest. The wasps chased me all the way down to the water trough at the Ascendant’s Inn, and my face was so stung I couldn’t go to Court for weeks–or see the lady.”

“Perhaps you did see the Wise after all,” laughed Amos, who had been listening at the stern. Ennan laughed too, till both had to pole hard to keep the narrowboat straight within the current.

“Maybe I did,” said Aleyne. “The lady in question did turn out to be rather different from what I had thought…”

“Yes, but why are you taking me to this Rhysamarn place?” asked Paul. “Will the Wise find my sister and take both of us back where we belong?”

“As to the first,” answered Aleyne, “only the Wise could possibly know what has become of your sister–especially if she has become mixed up with…the One from the North.”

Paul noticed that while Aleyne didn’t make the sign against witchcraft as often as old Malgar the Shepherd, he still did it occasionally–and he didn’t like using the Ragwitch’s name, now that he suspected She really did exist. “The One from the North” was the phrase he used to speak of the Ragwitch, or “Her”, with a hissing, audible capital “H”.

“And for the second,” Aleyne continued, “I have never heard of such a place as yours, with its…carz and Magics, so I suspect that if it does exist–and I believe you–the Wise will know of some way to get you back there.”

“I hope so,” replied Paul sadly. Relaxing in this boat was all very well, and safely exciting, but it was still the world of the May Dancers, their forest…and the Ragwitch. Paul wished the Ragwitch had taken him, rather than Julia, so his sister would be the one who had to look for him. Still, from what Aleyne had hinted at, being with the Ragwitch wouldn’t be very nice at all–maybe even scarier than the forest…

Paul slowly drifted off to sleep, one hand trailing over the side, occasionally brushing the water. Aleyne watched him as he turned and mumbled about his sister Julia, and how life just wasn’t fair.

When Paul awoke, it was early evening. The River Daughter was rocking gently, tied up against a jetty of old, greenish logs. Sitting up, Paul saw that the river was no longer narrow, but had widened into a majestic, slowmoving stretch of water at least a hundred metres wide. On either bank, open woodland sloped away from the river. To the west, yellow sunlight filtered down through the trees, the evening sun dipping down behind the upper parts of the wood. Paul watched sleepily as a bird flew up from the trees, crying plaintively as it rose higher into the greying sky.

“Ornware’s Wood,” said Aleyne, who had been sitting on the wharf “Not as old as the May Dancers’ forest, but much more pleasant. And the only creatures you should find here are hedge-pigs, deer, squirrels and suchlike.”

“No kangaroos?” asked Paul, half-heartedly. From the sound of it, they were going to have to walk through this wood, and it was still much like the May Dancers’ forest, no matter what Aleyne said.

“Kangaroos,” mused Aleyne (after Paul had described them). “No, I think there are none of those in Ornware’s Wood. But I have heard of animals like you describe, far to the south. Anyway, we must be going. There’s still an hour left of this half-light and we will camp not too far away.”

“OK,” replied Paul. “But where’s Ennan and Amos?”

Aleyne looked at the empty boat for a second, then answered, “They’ve gone to pay their respects to a…man…who holds power over the next stretch of the river.”

Paul wondered about Aleyne’s hesitation in describing the person the boatmen had gone to see. But Aleyne had already grabbed his pack and the smaller one he’d made up for Paul–though it seemed heavy enough to its bearer.

Half an hour later it seemed even heavier, although the going was easy and the wood pleasantly cool. Paul was glad when Aleyne finally stopped and dropped his pack against a gnarled old oak. Paul thankfully followed suit and sat down next to his temporarily eased burden.

“We shall camp here,” said Aleyne. “There’s a small stream beyond that clump of trees. It drains into the river and its water is clear and fresh. This will do very well; and from here it is a little less than a day to the Ascendant’s Inn at the foot of Rhysamarn.”

Paul looked glumly around the camp site. He didn’t like camping, particularly when there was no shower and toilet building nearby, nor a caravan in case it rained. Julia, of course, loved camping, though she normally didn’t get the chance if Paul had anything to do with it.

“Where’s our tent?” he asked Aleyne, as the latter opened up his pack and took out a small iron pot.

“Tent?” replied Aleyne, holding up the pot to the setting sun to look inside. “I have no tent–nor indeed a horse to carry such a heavy thing, all poles and cloth! I’ve a wool cloak, same as you’ll find in your pack. Good greasy wool will keep the weather out.”

“Oh,” said Paul, who hated the feel of wool, and didn’t like the sound of “greasy” wool. “Do you think it will rain?”

Aleyne cast an eye up at the darkening sky and said, “No clouds up there tonight. It might be cold, but it won’t rain.”

Paul looked up, noticing how dark the sky was becoming. Night seemed very close–and of a threatening blackness. Paul shivered and hastily opened his pack to find the wool cloak. Aleyne smiled and, putting the pot aside, began to gather sticks from a dead branch that had fallen nearby.

A few hours later Paul sat by the crackling fire, drinking soup that Aleyne had made in the pot, from salt-dried beef and herbs he’d gathered in the forest. Paul dreamily watched the sparks creeping up the side of the little pot to suddenly launch themselves into the air with a snap and crackle. Warm and content, he wrapped himself in his woollen cloak and fell asleep.

Across the fire, Aleyne started, as if disturbed by a sudden thought. He stood up, listened, then rapidly doused the fire, smothering it in dirt. With the fire gone, the night was once again complete. Aleyne listened in the darkness for a while, then lay down between the roots of the old oak. He didn’t wrap himself in his cloak and kept his dagger close at hand. As he fell into a wary sleep, an old memory crept into Aleyne’s mind of a picture in his father’s house: a picture of a distant ancestor, standing fully armed and armoured upon a battlefield, a dead North-Creature at his feet. Aleyne had always wondered why the artist had made him look more than a little afraid…

Paul awoke in darkness to find Aleyne crouched as his side, barely visible in the starlight. He opened his mouth, but Aleyne quickly put his hand over it, before leaning forward to whisper, “Do not speak normally. We must be quiet.”

Paul nodded. “Why?”