Here Be Witches Read online

  I’m sure that’s not just the wind howling.

  Davey and George are going so fast and the path is so narrow, I can’t draw level with them. The wind blows my words away.

  At last I reach them. ‘Please,’ I yell. ‘Something’s up … ’

  ‘Got … mirror?’ Davey turns and yells.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. Like, random question! I’m trying to tell them: Those Crows Are Seriously Bad News, and Widow-maker is not happy, and Rhiannon is scared and I know Oswald must have seen where we are and something is going to happen.

  And Davey is asking me about the mirror!

  George waves me closer, yells, ‘Keep up – hurry’.

  Davey with his head still turned, nods vigorously. ‘It has powers – the time may come – may save or slay us.’

  I strain to hear him, plus, you know, we’re going at full gallop.

  ‘Explore its wonders – carefully at first – of course – ’

  And wish I hadn’t. OMG he’s got such a patronising formal way of talking. Plus if he doesn’t listen to what I’m trying to say, I might just whack him with it!

  ‘DAVEY!’ I holler. I put my hand inside my jacket and pull the mirror out. ‘Not the best time!’

  He turns his head, slows Bayard and carefully enunciates: ‘We must be very careful, admittedly. Such a powerful magical object could possibly undo us.’

  ‘Undo us?’ I stare at him. Is he totally unhinged?

  ‘Listen,’ I call. ‘Behind. The. Wind. Can you hear it?’

  ‘I have already heard it,’ he says with a weird wrinkle of his nose (like I’m a favourite but really slow child). ‘I do not think the wolves will attack us in the open.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Maybe he knows something. I send him a questioning look.

  ‘No,’ he returns.

  ‘But you could be wrong?’

  Davey slows until he is quite level with me. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if they do, you’ve got some super-duper powers to protect us right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they ran away from you yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  Great.

  We come to the downhill stretch nearer to the broken stone wall.

  ‘OK,’ says George. He looks around. ‘I need to halt – just for a second – got to check the map – I can’t do that when we’re moving.’ He smiles at me. ‘Maybe eat something?’ He looks hopefully at the bag, packed on the black pony.

  ‘George,’ I start again, ‘I don’t think we should stop. Listen.’

  There below the wail of the wind is the baying of wild creatures.

  ‘Hey Elles,’ George’s face is sad and lined. ‘I know. But I’ve really got to make sure of the route. I promised Gran to stay on the path. Here where our backs are protected is as good a place as any to do that.’

  I look carefully at the spot. George has chosen well. The broken wall behind us skirts a sheer drop into a disused quarry. An attack from behind would be impossible.

  Rhiannon dismounts and says, ‘Gosh, you must be like, starving, George – I’ll go and get you something’.

  If I am going to die, I have one last request: please let Rhi stop doing all that gushing-over-George stuff. It’s utterly puke-in-a-paper-bag.

  ‘Aw, thanks, Rhi,’ says George, with a smile.

  And he totally encourages her. Makes her do it all the more. And if I say anything, he’ll just ask me if I’m jealous.

  I am totally absolutely not jealous.

  Obviously.

  George unfolds the map from its bag and, sheltering it from the wind, peers over it.

  The ponies huddle together, try and knock the snow from tufts of grass to munch at frosty mouthfuls. Davey smiles at me and nods his head.

  Perhaps he’s right after all – perhaps while George is checking the route, I should explore the mirror. I get it out and hold it up in front of me. If it has other powers, I obviously need to master them.

  Plus I might just get a glimpse of Henry.

  ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea, Elles?’ says George, looking up from the map and munching a fistful of cake and a chicken drumstick simultaneously.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. Looking into the mirror is the best idea I’ve had all day.

  ‘Oh, c’mon,’ says George.

  ‘Davey thinks it has powers that may destroy us,’ I say. ‘He suggested that I find out what. If there’re other dangers out there, I want to be prepared.’

  ‘Let her try and master the mirror,’ says Davey mystically.

  Over the mountainside the wind whistles. Below its piercing scream, the baying seems a little louder.

  ‘I’ll come and help you map-read, Georgie, if Ellie just wants to admire herself in that creepy mirror,’ says Rhiannon, sweeter than the sweetest saccharine. She waves a huge bacon sarnie and a slice of leftover Spanish omelette in front of him.

  I sigh. And look into the mirror.

  At first I see only my face, my worry and my eyes looking back. Then a mist seems to form quickly across the glass.

  I am not looking for Henry, I remind myself. I am not looking for Henry. I am looking to see what dangers and deadly perils lie in wait for us.

  The mist clears a little. In the mirror, shadows move. Through the dimness, I see the way we’ve come, the path that winds along beside the crest of the hill. I’m sure I can even make out Gran’s cottage – just a faint smudge of grey, far in the distance.

  And I see other things.

  They creep over the trampled miles of footprints, nose at the snow, yet on they come; across the slopes, following the scuffed trail. I peer closer. The shadows stop. They sniff at the air, as if for the first time they’ve caught scent of their quarry, and then they begin to lope. Faster and faster.

  I see what I already fear: the Cŵn Annwn – the loathsome creatures of the night.

  The white wolves of Snowdonia.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ELLIE’S PHONE Second Day of the Magic – 10 March 13.30

  Status: V Worried.

  ‘We’ve gotta go!’ I say. ‘They’re coming! I’ve seen them!’ Frantically I urge Keincaled forward.

  ‘COME ON ALREADY!’ I yell.

  Davey looks worried. ‘We must be careful not to jump too hastily to any course of action. We do not know the intent of the mirror. We must consider,’ he says, ‘just as you can see them, maybe they too can see us? Maybe by looking at them, they learn of our whereabouts. Or maybe the mirror sets us a trap, tricks us into running thoughtlessly forward, into certain danger ahead.’

  A lethal feeling, all cold and prickly, shoots down my spine. He could be right. Oswald’s flying somewhere near for sure, listening, watching, waiting for a chance to break through Gran’s protection. I check the little bunch of flowers is still tied to Keincaled’s mane. I remember the words: Blodau’r derw, banadl ac erwain a greodd Blodeuwedd; ni allwch hela unrhyw forwyn sy’n dal y blodau hyn.’1 I cross my fingers, send up a prayer to the mountains: let the charms hold.

  ‘But,’ I say, ‘the mirror showed me. The wolves are on our trail.’

  Widow-maker pricks up his ears. He sends out a sudden frenzied whinny.

  Rhiannon begins to cry. ‘Ohmygod, OhMyGod, OHMYGOD.’ She gets shriller.

  The ponies abruptly become restless, stamp their hooves, toss their heads.

  ‘Keep faith in the Lord,’ says Davey.

  Bayard starts neighing in a wild fashion.

  ‘You see,’ I say. ‘You see! The ponies know the wolves are coming. C’mon. Let’s go. Please.’

  This time Davey doesn’t argue. George checks the map again, peers across the mountainside. ‘Maybe, if we hurry … all this snow – it’s confusing … Gran marked the Druids Way as running here … if only we could reach it … ’

  Rhiannon struggles back on to her dapple-grey pony.

  ‘OK,’ says George, ‘let’s go. I’m pretty sure that’s the way.’

  We set off at a canter
, down by the wall, through the snow. I twist a lock of Keincaled’s mane through my gloved fingers, grip hard with my knees, keep my eyes squinted to try and avoid the flurry of snow from Bayard’s hooves.

  Ahead of us, the trail opens up on to a track. A few trees line it, stunted, heavy with frozen moss. Further to our left, the waters of a llyn shine, weirdly glassy.

  My nose goes cold. I catch faint howling. It reverberates in waves of sound. The ponies snort, agitated, clouds of steamy breath fill the air, wild manes billow. The small black one, Widow-maker, drops to the rear again, lays his ears flat against his skull and swishes his tail.

  At the front, Graine breaks into a gallop.

  ‘We must get there,’ shouts George over the wind. ‘Down past Beddgelert. We’ll be safe there … they can’t attack us on it … ’

  Davey shouts a reply: ‘It’s true … the Way of the Blessed is hallowed … ’

  I totally hope so. The ponies are utterly spooked out. And I’m crap at riding. I’ve never galloped. Not like this. I bend as low as I can, ducking under branches. And hang on.

  ‘We must slow down … we can’t risk a fall.’ George waves an arm up and down to slow us.

  ‘Bayard, Bayard!’ Davey yells. The bay pony tosses its head, as if it hears.

  ‘S-l-o-w the pace.’ George is hollering now.

  Bayard whinnies, seems to be talking to the other ponies, and the mad pace slackens. The frenzied gallop slows. We settle to a fast trot.

  God, I hate trotting.

  I hold on to Keincaled’s mane. I bump along. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper into his chestnut neck. ‘Don’t mean to jolt you.’

  Keincaled seems to understand. He rolls his eyes, but his pace stays steady. His hooves crunch snow, hit frozen soil in a bone-shaking, regular, drumming rhythm. God, even my teeth rattle.

  I’m sure you’re supposed to ‘rise’ to a trot or something, aren’t you?

  Rhiannon’s dapple mare flares her nostrils; she snorts out steamy air in an effort to control her panic. I see George talking to Graine, asking for his help to calm the others. Graine swishes his tail, whinnies.

  Then suddenly, through the mist on the far slopes, we see them.

  Wolves.

  White streaks – flowing in a white wave – tails stretched – hundreds of them.

  Racing towards us.

  And it’s too late. The grey mare is spooked. She breaks into a sudden wild gallop.

  Then the rest follow.

  And like racehorses we flee down the valley, along the side of the llyn.

  The stones on the track are slippery with ice. The dapple mare stumbles. Rhiannon cries out.

  They both go down.

  Down.

  For one terrible moment I see Rhi, a blur of pink, and white flying snow.

  There is whinnying and one long scream.

  And then a rolling blur of hooves and pony and girl.

  Oh no! Rhi?

  George jumps free of Graine and races to Rhiannon. Graine pounds to a snorting stop and trots after George, neighing at the dappled mare to calm down.

  The grey mare struggles to her feet. Her flank is bleeding. George picks Rhiannon up. Her face is as white as the snow all around her.

  ‘You Ooh-kaay?’ I call.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she whimpers.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ reassures George. ‘Your pony broke your fall, even though she went down. You’re shaken, but trust her. Look – she’s bleeding, she saved you.’

  Rhiannon looks at her little grey mare and throws her arms around the pony’s neck. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  ‘C’mon,’ urges George. I see him looking out over the lake.

  I focus on the long stretch of bank on the far side of the water. More of them. Shapes racing through the mist. Glint of eye. Shine of teeth. Pale tongues. Bone-white fur.

  I lean forward and whisper into Keincaled’s mane, ‘I think we should get going’.

  At once Keincaled understands. He lifts his head, rolls his eye back at me and breaks into a canter. He takes the lead while George stays near Rhi. Davey drops back to bring up the rear with Widow-maker.

  Down the track towards the main road, into another field, the path is narrow alongside a stream, hard to follow. Twigs and frozen moss tear at me. The clouds clear, just a bit. A very little bit. The snow stops falling. The moon shines out in the afternoon sky. Weird. Scarily bright.

  How far ’til we hit the Druids Way? As if in answer, a howling breaks out. A great din of barking and wailing. And it’s so much closer.

  They must have caught our scent.

  But as I lean forward and whisper to Keincaled, ‘faster, faster,’ to my horror, an answering howl shatters the air.

  A god-awful, monstrous yowling coming from in front of us!

  They are up ahead too?

  ‘Follow the track, ’til you come to the road – turn right,’ George’s voice hollers above the howling.

  Icy air whips down at me. I grip with my knees and twist a knot of Keincaled’s mane into my fist. I hang on as he shoots into a furious gallop.

  ‘Go right,’ I call to Keincaled, hoping he can hear.

  What’s in front of us?

  In my mind, I imagine ‘a great creature with a blood-smeared mouth’ – some story Dad used to tell me. Waiting on the road. I don’t know why I think of that … I don’t want to think of that …

  There’s a tearing noise. Something crashes through undergrowth just behind us. So close. I twist my head round, strain into the whiteness. And then I see the wolves, not far behind Davey, George and Rhiannon – there – streaming out of the mist. Light shining off their coats. Glittering on their yellow teeth. Catching the fire in their eyes.

  They’re here. They’ve reached us.

  I whip round, steady myself on Keincaled and peer forward. We’re going so fast. The wind stings my face, blinds me. It’s so cold even my teeth are frozen. I’ve never been this fast on a horse before. God, don’t let me fall.

  ‘Trust Keincaled,’ I hear Granny Jones’s reassuring tone. ‘He is handsome and hardy and will let none he chooses to carry slip from his back.’

  I flipping hope not.

  Towards the road, right towards the village of Beddgelert.

  But that howling. Oh God, don’t let them be in front too.

  We burst through the hedge on the mountainside, barely noticing the thorns or the sharp gnarled twigs.

  Only to be greeted by another long drawn-out howl.

  I was right. It is coming from in front. An eerie wailing that pierces the air like The Hound of the Baskervilles meets The Hour of the Werewolves.

  Oh Henry, let us survive.

  We’re on to the road, racing like a bullet. No phantom hound just yet. Maybe I was wrong. Keincaled leaps the ruts on the verge, gallops down the centre of the road. Oh God, I hope he knows what he’s doing. He tears through the snowdrifts, swerves ice patches, rips through air like lightning.

  There’s a thudding crash behind us.

  I daren’t turn round. I’ll lose balance. The wind whips past. My ears. They hurt. My heart drums. My legs shake with the gripping. I screw up my eyes. My eyes. I can’t see. Up ahead is something. Buildings? Reach them. The wolves won’t risk going near people, will they?

  Weave in-between potholes, duck, twist. How close are they? Don’t look back. Ground’s covered with ice. Can’t slip. Can’t fall.

  The long drawn-out howling from ahead starts up again. Holy smoke, they’re behind us and in front!

  Please dear Snowdon. Please …

  A pounding shakes the road. Christ we’re trapped, I lift my head. Snatch a glimpse of something large, as it bursts into view.

  Larger than large.

  Howling and howling.

  A huge hound.

  I knew it. Another demon from the world of nightmares. Some kind of Gwyllgi; some monstrous dog of darkness.

  Holy Heck! Its teeth are bared. Holy holy heck. I bend low aga
inst Keincaled’s neck. Our only chance is to get off the road. I look for a way, a gap in the high bank. Nothing.

  No way to get to the village.

  Pray for a miracle.

  Keincaled drives forward. Brave pony. We race down the road, pound across treacherous tarmac. Ice chunks skitter, a spray of crumbling road flies out behind us.

  No time to look back. No time to think. Just pray. The gigantic beast up ahead yowls. Hooves race. It’s no use; the hound from hell is blocking the way. Where did it come from? No need to answer. Just hold on. Just breathe. And pray.

  And as we race towards certain death, I think of Henry. And I think of George.

  Henry. I’m so sorry.

  Rescue me, George, please save me.

  Maybe the wolves have already caught him.

  I can’t bear it.

  No George.

  No Henry.

  The monstrous thing ahead howls again.

  Blocks our path.

  Keincaled yields up one, long, screaming neigh and we skid to a halt.

  1 Oakblossom, broom, and meadowsweet; created Blodeuwedd, you cannot hunt any maiden who carries these flowers.[back]

  TWENTY-NINE

  I nearly shoot straight over Keincaled’s head.

  He twists under me, stops me from falling.

  There is no escape. The side of the valley to our right is blocked by a two-metre-high snowdrift. To our left: a fence.

  Through the mist, the howling wolves sound out their call into the wind.

  Within a split second, Davey, George and Rhiannon arrive. The ponies strike the frozen road, turn around and strike again, trapped between the huge hound and the wolves.

  The smell of dog, wet, pungent; I suck in air. Stay focused Ellie.

  ‘Form a circle.’ George reaches for his axe. ‘Stay together. I’ll face the wolves. You – Ellie – get behind me with Rhi. Davey?’

  George drags his axe free. The ponies whinny and stamp, but they do not run. Instead they form a rough circle. One of them rears up and smashes his hooves down as if to show us that they too can fight.

  But hardly has George drawn his axe, when the black pony – Widow-maker – races into the path of the oncoming wolves. He rears up, lays his ears flat against his skull, his nostrils flare, blood red. He watches the lead wolf, rolls his eye, and – quick as a flash – smashes his hooves down, crashing into its head, crushing it into a pulp of bone and blood and tissue.