Here Be Witches Read online

  I can actually feel my eyes widen. Wow, so that’s why he came along.

  George pounds forward on trusty Graine and lands his (relatively) new Husqvarna Forest, hickory, long-handled, steel, hand-forged axe right in the next wolf’s head. The axe lives up to its reputation and splits its skull in two.

  Ugh. Yuck. Stuff sprays across the white snow. Blood and bone. Foul. I close my eyes, just briefly, press my tongue against my teeth, fight back the urge to be sick.

  ‘Davey?’ calls George.

  I don’t somehow think Davey is going to be any good at fighting. But he moves bravely forward to George’s side. Yesterday, the wolves seemed afraid of him; today they show no fear. Too bad. I was hoping.

  Widow-maker rears and strikes again in a fury of hoof and teeth and crushing kicks.

  Davey seems to be praying. Rhiannon is screaming. Keincaled lets out a whinny of surprise. I feel myself jolted forward, as Keincaled bounds towards the hellhound.

  I really wish he were wearing a bridle. If he were, I would tug down on the reins, very hard.

  But there’s no bridle. Not even a bit of string. And even more worryingly, Keincaled seems to show no fear at all.

  I grip with my knees, hang on to his mane. ‘Keincaled!’ I shriek, ‘Nooo!’

  Keincaled takes no notice.

  At the back of my mind, I hear Gran whisper. ‘Trust your steed, my dear.’

  I cast one hopeful glance at George, but he’s enmeshed with three huge wolves, swinging his axe wildly, as Graine and Widow-maker slash and kick about them.

  So I turn to face the hellhound.

  Looks like I’m going to have to fight it all by myself. I yank out the mirror. ‘If you’ve got powers, you better show them,’ I hiss. I pray to the heart. ‘Henry, protect me.’

  And I turn, prepared to smash the mirror over the head of the hound, if I possibly can. Oh God, it’s so enormous.

  Grey, ragged, more like a wolfhound than a wolf.

  So scary.

  It bounds forward. I time what may be my one and only blow, grip Keincaled’s mane with one hand, raise the mirror.

  But amazingly.

  Totally gobsmackingly.

  When my arm is raised, the great hound lets out a bark of recognition, lopes forward and briefly nuzzles the face of my pony!

  OMG.

  What is going on?

  For one horrible minute, I think I’m deceived, Keincaled has betrayed me, and then I hear Davey shout, ‘Lord be praised!’

  My heart misses a beat. I don’t get it.

  ‘Tis Gelert, the faithful hound, risen from his bed to come to our defence!’ yells Davey, filling in the gaps for me.

  I drop my arm. I peer forward, squint at the hellhound again, and see that it is not a hideous monster at all, but a true wolfhound, dark in colour, though majorly huge. And I remember the story … 1

  Keincaled wheels back, and with Gelert at our side (tbh Gelert is practically as big as Keincaled) we charge back.

  Widow-maker and George stand together in a mess of hair and blood. The snow on the road is pulped to a pink mess. Widow-maker has a long gash along his flank and George’s axe is down, embedded fast into the neck of a dying wolf.

  The sight of Gelert sends hideous snarling along the ranks of the white creatures.

  The wolves cower back. One, a thin, evil-eyed creature slinks to the side, springs forward at Rhiannon on the tiny dapple-grey pony. Gelert strikes faster than an arrow; like a bolt of lightning, he has the creature by the throat. One twist of his mighty jaws and the thin wolf’s neck breaks with a revolting crack. There’s a crunch and blood from the jugular vein shoots out in an arc of crimson.

  ‘Ooohhh!’ shrieks Rhi.

  ‘Be not afraid,’ consoles Davey. ‘We are saved, for the wolves hate and fear Gelert.’ He moves closer to Rhi and explains: ‘He slew their ancestor, their wolf king, and paid for it with his life. He is a saint among dogs and a demon among wolves.’

  ‘Oh Davey,’ sobs Rhi, ‘are we really saved?’

  George springs down from Graine and retrieves his axe. Widow-maker goes to his side and bares his teeth.

  And Gelert howls out his hunting cry.

  1 Gelert is the legendary dog associated with the village of Beddgelert. The dog is alleged to have belonged to Llywelyn the Great, who returned from hunting to find his baby missing, the cradle overturned, and the dog with a blood-smeared mouth. Believing the dog savaged the child, Llywelyn drew his sword and killed it. After the dog’s dying yelp, Llywelyn heard the cries of the baby, unharmed under the cradle, along with a huge dead wolf. From that day on, Llywelyn never smiled again.[back]

  THIRTY

  The wind whips down, cold from the mountain. Gelert howls and howls. The howling echoes from valley to valley.

  The wolves hesitate, then turn and slope away. George wipes his bloodstained hands down his jacket.

  Yuck. Boys.

  Don’t they ever think of how clothes get washed?

  He turns to me and says, ‘Thank God, you’re all right’.

  ‘What about me?’ cries Rhiannon. ‘Aren’t you going to say: thank God, I’m all right?’

  George looks at her and smiles. ‘Of course I am,’ he says.

  ‘Well, then say it,’ she insists.

  ‘Thank God you’re all right, Rhi,’ says George with one of his huge, sunny smiles. It lights up his handsome face. Have I told you before how handsome he is? Well, right now he looks amazing: big smile, even his fair hair in a dishevelled Viking plait looks awesome.

  I sniff. Why does she get the sunny smile? Like, was Rhiannon the one charging off to meet a hellhound straight from the Devil?

  No. She was not. She was sitting behind George and Widow-maker, protected on the other side by Davey and me. But I don’t say anything. I’m actually, really, totally glad all of us are OK. Even Widow-maker’s wound is not as bad as it first looked, and he was right in the thick of it. Plus George does not belong to me.

  Do you think I actually might be jealous?

  Honestly, I am not.

  I have never fancied George. There is no spark. He is just a friend. He has never fancied Rhi. And anyway, I am in love with Henry.

  With one short triumphant round of barking, Gelert summons the ponies and leads the way back down the road towards Beddgelert.

  George nudges Graine across, so that he is trotting flank by flank with Keincaled. He reaches out a hand and grabs hold of mine. He squeezes it. ‘That was very brave of you,’ he says.

  I blush. I melt. He does care. And it would be nice to take the credit, to let him carry on squeezing my hand and praising me. But it’s not the truth. So I say, ‘Thing is, George, I wasn’t being brave at all. It was Keincaled. He charged at the hound – I mean, before we knew it was Gelert. I didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘Aw, don’t run yourself down for me,’ says George. ‘I was impressed.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I say.

  ‘But there’s nothing new in that,’ says George. ‘I’m totally impressed with you all the time.’ He squeezes the fingers of my hand tightly.

  ‘Stop it.’

  I glance behind at Rhiannon. She’s noticed George whispering to me. Ner to her. Serves her right.

  Perhaps I am just a teeny weeny bit possessive about George.

  —

  At a turn in the road, where a cliff face rises sheer overhead, Gelert comes to a standstill. He fixes Davey with his eye, like Davey can read his mind.

  Who knows? Perhaps he can. He seems to be able to read mine.

  Davey turns to us and says, ‘Gelert’s bed is just beyond that pasture there, after the river – the Afon Glaslyn. He cannot stray too far from it, and now the immediate danger is past, he is going to return there to sleep again.’

  My heart sinks a little. It felt so safe having Gelert with us.

  ‘It won’t be sensible for us to remain upon the road after he is gone. We must move on quickly towards Blaenau Ffestiniog, join the D
ruids Way while the Cŵn Annwn lick their wounds. They won’t have gone far. Once they know that Gelert is asleep again, they may seek to ambush us up ahead,’ concludes Davey.

  Vaguely I wonder how come he has suddenly become such an expert on the Cŵn Annwn. And how come they aren’t afraid of him any more.

  Davey nods at me. ‘You are right,’ he says, like he really is Mr Mind Reader. ‘I have realised that they are growing in strength. Yesterday they feared me, today they fear Gelert, tomorrow they will fear no one.’

  Davey is always so delightfully encouraging.

  ‘But why?’ whines Rhiannon. ‘Why are they getting more fearless?’

  ‘It is the work of the Olde Deepe Magicke, it grows in power towards the equinox.’

  Something clicks in my brain. ‘You’re not really a hiker, are you?’ I say. ‘You’re something else.’ Davey just smiles at me. ‘You’re something the Olde Deepe Magicke awoke as well. That’s why you were on the hillside. That’s why you don’t remember anything … ’

  ‘And who knows what else walks abroad this day?’ he adds, skilfully dodging my question.

  Or flies abroad, I think, racking my brains.

  ‘Then why don’t you grow in strength too?’ asks Rhiannon.

  ‘Perhaps my strength is for a different purpose,’ muses Davey.

  Instinctively I look up into the grey clouds. Like, what’s up there: Oswald? Witches on their broomsticks? Another murder of crows?

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how you know all these things, but I’d feel a lot safer off this road and on the Druids Way.’

  ‘May the Lord protect us,’ he says, still smiling.

  And I smile back, but inside I’m thinking: so who the heck are you, Davey?

  —

  At the next gate, we leave the road. A narrow path winds down the side of one field. In the distance lies the village of Beddgelert. Already the streetlights are glowing in the mist about half a mile away. It looks marooned, isolated, deep in snow. A lone blackbird sings its evening note. The air, scented with nightfall, pine and frost, makes my face tingle. We follow the path as it curves through a patch of woodland and joins another track, snaking from the left.

  ‘At last, the Druids Way,’ announces George.

  ‘Praise be!’ says Davey. ‘For though they knew not the glory of our Lord, the Druids had many skills. They marked out the ley lines, put charms along the sides of their ways and none that belong to the Olde Deepe Magicke like to cross such lines of power.’

  OK … so Davey is not a creature of the Olde Deepe Magicke then?

  I look at the track. It’s very narrow. In places it seems to disappear entirely in a tangle of snow-covered bushy weeds and long tussocky grass. The sky overhead lowers oppressively. And up ahead are huge mountains. Dusk seems to be setting in at speed. The blackbird still calls. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I’m sure I can still hear the faint baleful howl of a wolf.

  But nothing else, except the slight smell of woodsmoke. None of the ponies seem alarmed.

  We trudge on. Uphill. Along twisting, winding, stony hill paths.

  As we head for Blaenau Ffestiniog, along the long-forgotten Druids Way, across the mountaintops, even Keincaled becomes weary.

  Twilight turns into hazy dusk.

  Night falls. Still up and up we go. Miles and miles. At least eight, but uphill, so feeling more like twenty. Over mountain. Through snow. Across icy streams. Frozen moss on stunted trees. Wide stretches of shadowy slopes. A biting wind always at our backs. Dark skies. Huge mountains. Slippery pathways.

  So tired. So desperately tired.

  And cold.

  And the second day is ending.

  And we are still nowhere near shelter.

  Or Cadair Idris.

  THIRTY-ONE

  They find us of course.

  They trail us. Just on the other side of the mists. As we are coming down from the mountain pass, I see them in the mirror. I sneak it out and look. There they are; white shadows on the far side of the ridge. I tilt the mirror to the left and right. I hold it up to my face, hoping I might sink into it, find Henry. But only my own pale eyes stare back at me. I flip it up, so I can see the night sky, longing for a glimpse of him up there, on his flight to the stars.

  A different pair of eyes stare back at me.

  Oh My God!

  I swallow a shriek. My hand trembles. Don’t drop the mirror!

  Oswald.

  Oswald is there, just behind the cloud cover.

  Oswald – right overhead. Just waiting for his moment to strike.

  And then the Druids Way runs out.

  It just comes to an open space bordered on three sides by sheer faces of piled-up slate.

  George yells out, ‘It’s a quarry’. The ponies come to a stop. ‘Let’s back up a bit – see if there’s a way round.’ His voice echoes back oddly off the grey slag heaps in front of us.

  But if we have to go round, that means we have to leave the path. (And that’s obviously something Oswald would be very happy about.) Plus I’m too tired.

  ‘We’ve come a long way,’ I say. ‘I need to rest. Keincaled needs a rest. So do we all. We can’t leave the path now.’

  Plus, apart from a tiny bit of moonshine, it’s night and we can’t see anything.

  Rhiannon sways unsteadily on her ride. She’s as white as a sheet.

  ‘Just a short rest by that rock face over there,’ I plead. I lean forward on Keincaled, until my head is lying on his mane. Just a little rest … a little snooze … a tiny nap for a good girl …

  ‘No!’ George says. ‘Not a good idea. If we are still on the Druids Way we may be protected, but if the quarrying has removed the charms … ’

  George doesn’t look like he’s going to end that statement with a joke.

  ‘OK. You look tired. Just a power nap. And don’t move off the path.’ He seems to relent. ‘I’ll stand guard.’ He weighs his axe in his hand and nudges Graine to one side. ‘I’ll take the right. Davey, you up for the left? Keep Rhiannon in the centre with you, Elles. She looks half dead.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Davey. ‘They could strike soon. When we are at our weakest, when they have gathered their numbers. If the Druids Way has run out, then we must prepare ourselves.’

  ‘Maybe I could use the mirror?’ I say. ‘Maybe this is the right time? ‘I have it here. I could breathe on it and see?’

  ‘Now is not the time to experiment with the power of the mirror,’ says Davey firmly. ‘As I have said before, a witch’s mirror is no plaything.’

  OK. Now is the right time. Now isn’t the right time. As ever, his jolly old self.

  ‘Perhaps … what did Gran say? Look for unexpected help?’ says George. He stares up at the slate face in front of us. ‘I wonder … ’ He jumps off Graine goes over and taps at a massive rock in its grey surface. ‘We could try it,’ he muses.

  ‘Try what?’ moans Rhiannon.

  ‘Try to call out to the Coblynau.’1

  ‘Who the heck are the Coblynau?’ I say.

  ‘The Bwca, the Knockers,’ he replies by way of explanation.

  ‘Knockers?’ says Rhi.

  I seriously hope she hasn’t got the strength to make a crude joke.

  ‘Call upon their hospitality,’ explains George with a grin.

  ‘Are they good? Bad? Or ugly?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re the creatures that haunt the mines and quarries – the underground regions of Wales,’ says George. ‘They’re like Welsh leprechauns – they sometimes trick miners to their death, knocking the tunnel walls.’

  ‘They don’t sound very good to me,’ I say. ‘And they definitely sound ugly.’

  Davey laughs. ‘There is nothing safe in Snowdonia, now the Fimbulvetr has begun. There’ll be nowhere safe, until we restore the High Magick of Merlin.’

  ‘Let’s call them,’ says George. ‘If Gran’s right and all the Olde Deepe Magicke is awake, they’ll hear us. It’s worth a try. Sometimes
they’re helpful. Sometimes their knocking leads miners to seams of gold.’

  ‘And sometimes it doesn’t,’ says Davey, back in Eeyore mode.

  ‘But why risk it?’ I say. ‘Maybe they won’t be in a good mood.’

  ‘Because if we try to move off this path, we’re dead meat. Roast beef, shish kebab.’ George picks up an imaginary knife and fork and slices at an imaginary piece of steak and chews it. Nobody laughs. Not even him.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ moans Rhiannon.

  Davey strokes his chin and pulls at his wispy beard. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘Perhaps the old code of hospitality will prevail.’ He dismounts, turns to the rock face and knocks on it.

  If I hadn’t just survived a battle with the Cwn Annwn, and seen the great hound, Gelert, in the flesh, I’d laugh. Like, what a nutter, knocking on a quarry face, like it was someone’s front door, to beg a night’s kip from mythical miniature miners.

  He knocks again, his fist clenched, his mouth seemingly stretched ready to say: hello, sorry to disturb you, Mr Gnome-Leprechaun-Miner-thing, but could we come in?

  It doesn’t work anyway.

  Nobody answers with, ‘Bugger off, you annoying hippie’.

  Rhiannon whimpers and says, ‘I’m all achy too. I totally need to lie down’. She slides down from her grey mare and slumps on to a rock.

  ‘Listen, Davey,’ says George. ‘I don’t really think that’s how you summon the Knockers.’ He jumps forward. ‘You don’t tap on their walls, as if you’re their next-door neighbour and their music is playing a bit too loud. I think we’ll stand a much better chance of rousing them if we attack this quarry face – as if we’re miners ourselves – and see if they’ll knock back.’

  George straightens up and draws out his axe.

  ‘Sorry axe,’ says George. ‘You were my best, new, Husqvarna Forest, hickory, long-handled, steel, hand-forged axe; if this makes you blunt – just know it was all for a good cause.’ And with that George raises his axe and strikes it hard against the slate face of the quarry.