Here Be Witches Read online

  Charge. Your. Phone.

  Take money. Oh, and your bus pass.

  I go into the hall. I look in the big mirror. Yuck. I drag a brush through my hair, pull some extra socks out of the tops of my wellies, put them on, take two huge fleecy hoodies off the pegs and pull one on top of the other.

  It really is brutally cold. I go to the kitchen. I stand hopping from one foot to the other on the freezing flagstone floor. Wow, it’s totally below zero. I grab my walking boots from the back porch, pull them on. Outside it looks like it’s actually trying to snow. Winter is supposed to over by now; you know – snowdrops and daffs and crocuses and things are supposed to be coming out. There’s mist everywhere – really tight up against the farmhouse. Ragged lines of cloud strain through the grey night, just like the Brenin Llwyd.1 I remember the riders, the shadows in the mist.

  The Riders!

  That dream I just had.

  The dark hillside, the storm, the wind howling off white-topped rocks, bracken tossing.

  Dark shapes, cloaks tight around them, the screech of a landslide, rock cracking open, quartz splitting through crystal down to sheer drops.

  And the body of the girl screaming, falling.

  The Brenin Llwyd. Working his evil visions.

  He’s out there in the cold and dark.

  Waiting for me.

  1 The Brenin Llwyd, in Welsh folklore, is the most powerful and perhaps the oldest Lord of the Grey Dark. He is said to haunt Snowdonia, hiding in the mists of the mountaintops. His breath, a thick fog, descends in the space of a few heartbeats; it drives unwary travellers to their deaths by hiding the edges of precipices and icy llyns. He is a brooding, silent, evil figure, who lies in wait for those who venture up into his mountains. Those who are never seen again are said to have been taken by the Brenin Llwyd and his grey riders. [back]

  TWO

  I grab water and chocolate. Should I wake Mum? She needs to sleep. Hell, I’m tired too. We got totally exhausted yesterday rescuing newborn lambs up on the high pastures. It took hours. Getting them back down to the farmhouse and safely into the barn was no joke. Tomorrow morning – this morning, Mum is heading all the way to Leeds, too. She can’t do anything about Dinas Emrys, anyway. It’s way too early. Imagine it:

  ME: Hey Mum. Wake up.

  MUM: Huh?

  ME: Someone rang looking for mountain rescue, but that’s sorted. Anyway, I had this thing while I was watching Horror Her, I’ve decided to go out in the middle of the night for a bike ride to meet the Brenin Llwyd.

  MUM: Huh?

  ME: I can’t tell you exactly what’s happened – something about a landslide – but I thought I’d wake you up anyway. Oh, and Rhiannon’s pinging me.

  MUM: Huh?

  ME: OK, now you can go back to sleep.

  MUM: Ellie?

  ME: It’s fine. Night night. Have a nice time in Leeds.

  Amazingly stupid idea. But I ought to at least say goodbye – she actually is leaving at the crack of dawn, and I might not be back. On the other hand, I ought not to wake her up … dilemma.

  So decide, I tell myself.

  So I do: I am not going to wake her. After all, I’m practically grown up now, sixteen going on seventeen (pretty soon). I Do Not Need To Inform My Mum Every Time I Leave The House.

  So instead, while I wait for my phone to charge, I’ll write her a note. She’s going to be confused and do her puzzled face. It’s not something a normal teenager thinks of doing. Oh yes, I think I’ll just go for a lengthy bike ride, at half past midnight just because … well, it seems like a good idea.

  So I start writing:

  Dear Mum,

  Then I realised this is the moment when: I Have To Tell Her About Henry. Ha. Ha. Biggest Awwwwww-kward Ever.

  What to say? I glance at my phone battery icon. Green bar only a third up. Come on green bar – hurry up! I glance out of the kitchen window again. No answers out there. The mist is tighter against the house than before. I can hardly see a thing. I strain through the glass hoping to catch a glimpse of the moon; after all it should be full, shouldn’t it?

  An evil shiver suddenly shoots down my spine. Was that something moving?

  Grey shapes, dark against dark. All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck go prickly. What if there really are grey riders. What if the Brenin Llwyd actually exists?

  Stop it. Focus on what to tell Mum. Currently, she doesn’t know anything at all about Henry.

  Hmmm.

  But how to tell?

  I continue the wake-up scene in my head:

  ME: OK, (clears imaginary throat) I’m going out, mostly because of something that started around Christmas and Rhiannon’s texts. And the two are connected.

  MUM: Huh?

  ME: You see, I met this boy, but I never told you about him.

  MUM: Huh?

  ME: And it’s a long story, but the short version is: he is a dragon.

  MUM: Ellie, if he’s not very nice, are you sure you should keep on seeing him?

  ME: I’m not ‘seeing him’, and he is very nice. I mean he really is a dragon – you know fire and wings – not bad tempered or whatever.

  MUM: OOooooh-kaaay.

  ME: So I have to go out to check he’s locked up in his cave.

  MUM: All right darling. That’s just fine. A pitch-dark freezing night is a fabulous time to go on a date/visit an inmate/check your pet monster is under control. Off you go. By the way, my first boyfriend was a three-headed griffin with bad breath. Have fun!

  Right. There is probably no way to tell The Person Who Loves You Most In The World just exactly why you were/are ready to risk your life on a relationship that has only lasted a week (ish) and involves a dragon in a cave. I mean, that’s what happened, at Christmas.

  Risk my life. And leave her all alone. Forever.

  But I will have to try. Because I’ve got a V V V bad feeling about tonight.

  Green bar is up to halfway. Can I risk it?

  Only yesterday, I saw a figure standing up on the mountain above the pass, opposite Clogwyn on the great knife-edge that Mum and I call the Devil’s Bridge.

  I saw him standing there, when we were working so hard to save those newborn lambs. I tried to dismiss it; told myself. It Couldn’t Possibly Be Henry. But now, all this … oh, be still my beating heart.

  Whatever. It was definitely a sign. So I’m going to have to let Mum know. Everything this time.

  Including what happened at Christmas, just in case …

  Green bar is up to two thirds. Yay! Just another five minutes and I can go.

  I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and I start again:

  Dear Mum,

  I have to tell you about Henry. I don’t know how to start, because you’re probably going to think your teenage daughter has gone loopy. I should start at the most important point and come straight out and tell you that Henry is a dragon and I am in love with him. (Not some cuddly toy for sale in the Llanberis railway station souvenir shop. NOT one of those huge, great, big, ugly, red dragon things. PUH-LEEESE.) No, Henry Is Not A Cuddly Toy. He is a boy (though very cuddly. In fact, he’s cuddly, gorgeous, fit, lush, tall, kind, special: OK get out the thesaurus and add in all your fave synonyms for AWESOME.), and he’s also a dragon/boy. OK?

  Not OK.

  She’ll think I’ve been reading too many paranormal romances and am certifiably bonkers. Or am trying to cook up some sort of lame drama-thing, because I’m a teenager and obviously I don’t have a boyfriend because I live halfway up the largest mountain in Wales. The days in which boys would climb towers (or mountains) to see the girls they love are over. Or never were.

  Nowadays boys would never even consider doing all that romantic stuff (except for George and he lives up here anyway, so that doesn’t count). Sigh.

  I put down the pen. Maybe Mum will think Henry is someone I’ve met on World of Myth/War/Mountain/Craft and is a gamer, who has an avatar who happens to be a red dragon.

  So I add
the following:

  It all started long ago with the Mabinogion and Merlin and Y Ddraig Goch, and I can’t go into all of that, because I’ve got to go off and see what’s happened asap, so you’ll just have to believe me when I say that’s the way it is. I’m in love with Henry, and I have promised to dedicate my entire life to try and free him from this curse that’s hanging over him, which also involves his worst enemy: Oswald, the White Dragon of Wessex, who happens to be his uncle btw.

  I know it sounds odd. Try to get over that bit. Anyway, I would like to have told you all this properly but Rhi’s waiting for me, so that’s all I can say for now.

  Love you very much.

  Ellie.

  I put the letter into an envelope. I don’t read it through, because I know if I do, I will start to cry to imagine how (when she comes back from Leeds) I’ll have to sit across the breakfast table from her and tell her the whole story. And I really don’t want to.

  Green bar is over three quarters now. Yippee!

  So I put the envelope behind the clock on the mantelpiece in the front room, because I know she won’t look there, until she needs postage stamps. And who the heck ever needs postage stamps these days, what with direct debits and the internet? So that means the letter will stay there. Unread. For. A. Very. Long. Time.

  Phew.

  But if the stuff at Dinas Emrys is really V V V urgent and V x woteva terrible and I have to go off and do other V urgent and V terrible things and I never return, it will still be there. And she will find it eventually, and she will know what has happened to me, and then George will have to tell her the rest.

  I grab my mobile. Three-quarters charged is good enough.

  I go into the front room and put the letter behind the clock. Ceri, our sheepdog, whines and raises one ear quizzically. I shush her. Then I leave Mum a temporary, stand-in note scrawled on the fridge in whiteboard marker:

  GONE OUT TO SEE RHIANNON. HAVE A NICE TRIP XXX

  Then I put on my waterproofs, pick up my gear and sneak out the front door.

  THREE

  Outside it’s even colder. A mean wind blows, and the mist whips past in thin serrated shapes. I think about the grey riders. I think about the Brenin Llwyd. Stay calm, I tell myself. Even if the grey riders are real, even if what they say about the Brenin Llwyd is true, you have to get safely to Dinas Emrys. Keep your head. So I send another ping to Rhiannon:

  ELLIE’S PHONE

  Setting out now. Be there soon. Hang on. UPDATE ME PLEASE.

  XXX E

  I pull the farmhouse door shut behind me, as softly as I can. The latch clicks to, sharply jolting the silence. Cripes, I must be mad! It’s the middle of the flipping night.

  I hear the sheep, little bleatings, followed by deep husky snorts. I think of those tiny, cute newborns, cuddling into their mothers. I go across to the barn. I put my head in and check they’re all fine. Inside the barn smells lovely, all warm and woolly, and filled with that sweet scent only newborns have. ‘Sleep tight little babies,’ I whisper, and secure the latch on the barn door behind me.

  Then I drag my mountain bike out of the side shed and take a deep breath. You can do this, Ellie, I tell myself. You have to. You must find out what’s happened at the cavern. Rhiannon is waiting. Henry may need you. Then I pull my gloves off and test the tyres on the bike. They seem OK. I adjust my daysack on my back, put my gloves back on and push the bike across the drive.

  I wheel it up to the gate, unclasp the latch and pull the gate open. Once through, I close the gate behind me, and jump on. Sheets of thin mist lash across the pastures. They seem to condense into terrifying shapes. I turn my thoughts away from them. It’s not the Brenin Llwyd, obviously. I pedal my way through the darkness down towards Llanberis, down the long track that winds through the foothills of the mountain.

  Icy sleet stings my cheeks. My fingers, already numb, ache. I try to take them off the handlebars and shake them out, but that just makes them hurt more. Unable to see further than a few metres ahead, I turn on to the track that stretches alongside the slope under Moel Cynghorion.

  I cycle past the turning where it branches off to George’s place, and onwards downhill.

  The great silence of Snowdon hangs in the air, broken only by the crunch of my wheels on the track, the swish of my waterproofs, and the faint roar of Ceunant Mawr waterfall in the distance, as it thunders down into Llanberis.

  It’s kind of awful and awesome all at once.

  After about five minutes, I make it to the tarmac section of our lane. The wheels whisper on the fractured asphalt and it’s much easier going. This is the good bit I remind myself: freewheeling down into Llanberis. After this, it’s uphill all the way to Pen-y-Pass.

  Not a shop is open. Not even Spar. No, really! The modern world has not hit Llanberis. A luminous yellow light shines out apologetically, from under its closed-up doorway. Brilliant. The only convenience store in the whole of Llanberis is inconveniently shut. All the B&B signs read ‘CLOSED’. Llanberis is The City of the Dead.

  Actually Llanberis is really just one long, main street that runs straight from the train station down towards Caernarfon. So it’s more like The Street of the Dead.

  Along one side cluster all the guesthouses, interspersed with the outdoor-mountaineering-type shops and a few restaurants, all of them for the tourists who swamp the place in the summer. Parallel to the main street runs another road, down alongside the lake. And across the waters of Llyn Padarn, on its far side, the slate quarry glowers, like some half-carved monstrous sculpture.

  I know it’s there, glowering away, through the mist, even though I can’t see it. I shiver and turn the bike uphill towards the pass. I start to hammer down on the pedals. Snowdon lurks invisible to my right. Only the gradient of the road confirms it’s still there. Icy rain lashes my face. This Is Not Terrifying. Not one bit. It’s just an invigorating midnight bike ride in the hills. What could be nicer?

  I realise when I’ve been going for about ten minutes that I’ve forgotten to attach a flashing LED light behind me. That is worrying. I am totally out of breath, plus I seem to be hitting pockets of zero visibility. What if some boy racer, on his way back from town, comes charging up the road? In this mist, I might get smacked off my bike. Delightful thought.

  I scramble around to see if I can attach one of the LED blinkers I’ve clipped on the front of the bike to my daysack − or hang it around my neck backwards. That makes me even more out of breath, plus the bike wobbles under me. Maybe one bike blinker won’t be enough anyway? Better to keep as close to the verge as I can.

  A sweat breaks out across my face. I hope my eyebrows don’t dissolve. (Yes, I admit, I did put some make-up on, just in case.) The sweat kind of goes icy. I hope my eyebrow pencil stick is waterproof. Driving sleet half blinds me. The sweat spreads. My clothes start to stick. I start to shiver and the bike wobbles even more. Note to all: Don’t try biking up a mountain in the middle of the night for fun.

  I twist about trying to fix the light. I refuse to stop and get off. If I do, all those things in the dark might catch up.

  And now I’m imagining the Brenin Llwyd.

  And I’m all by myself, under the huge escarpment of the mountain.

  I can actually feel the massive slopes of the pass, rising on either side.

  Holy cripes – this must be the most stupidest thing ever!

  And I hate Glyder Fawr. I hate it. It’s a huge, creepy upheaval of bare rock. And it’s lurking over me, RIGHT NOW.

  Climbers find it awesome, apparently. Although what they discover on the top, aside from those naked rock fingers, I don’t know. Glyder Fawr’s a half-formed, monster, alien thing – a kind of afterthought. A mutant relative of Snowdon.

  The feeling of it there, waiting … UGHH.

  It’s a long haul going up Llanberis Pass on a pushbike, I can tell you. And if you’ve never ever done it before, don’t be too upset. Much better to stay indoors and snuggle up under your duvet. I tell myself ex
actly that, as I’m pummelling down on those pedals.

  Much. Better. To. Be. Under. A. Duvet.

  Why. Are. You. Not?

  The further I get up the pass, the more ragged the mist becomes. Plus there are some horrible howling noises going on. I am trying hard not to be afraid. My heart is beating really fast. But I tell myself that’s just from pedalling. I am absolutely sure there are dark riders, just alongside me. They seemed to say: Go on! Go faster! And the howling sort of underlines it. Like, if you do not speed up some werewolf is going to catch you.

  Weirdly, there’s something about that which pees me off. I just hate being ‘managed’. So instead of going faster, I go slower. The gradient plays a part admittedly. What the heck – if those grey riders are going to catch me and take me to the Brenin Llwyd, so be it.

  And with that thought and being very pig-headed (George’s assessment of me because I won’t fall in love with him), I r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o—o—o—w right down.

  And suddenly it all comes together: the Pass, Glyder Fawr, Snowdon, the mist …

  And I remember the dream:

  The dark hillside, the storm, the wind howling off white-topped rocks, bracken tossing. I am standing right on the summit of Snowdon. There below me is the cafe. I’m leaning on the circular stone tower at the very peak. And Henry is with me. I lean against him. He puts his arm around me. I turn in the haze. The wind is rushing up into our faces, driving sleet into our eyes, below us a rumble of thunder.