Here Be Witches Read online

  ‘If it’s blunt, you won’t be able to defend me!’ wails Rhiannon.

  ‘There is little defence against those wolves,’ says Davey cheerily, ‘and even now they may have tricked us, for they are the hellhounds of Gwyn ap Nudd, and if they cannot rip us apart, or chase us into the Underworld, they will summon him: their fearsome leader.’2

  Hi ho, very cheerful.

  At that moment there’s a sound, a bit like an earthquake. The rock face shivers, as if a huge landslide is about to start. I glance up at the towers of piled slate and hold my breath. I look goggle-eyed at George.

  He shakes his head. No outline of a door appears on the huge rock. ‘Obviously: no vacancies. Not receiving visitors,’ he says.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Look up there.’ I point to a little scree of stones that has slid down the side of the quarry. Above them a dark crevice has opened up.

  ‘And I’m tired too,’ moans Rhiannon, not bothering to look up at anything.

  I get down off Keincaled to get a better look. Even if it’s not a ‘please come on in’, it is something. It looks wide enough to take the four of us, perhaps even the ponies. ‘Maybe we could rest up there for the night?’ I say.

  ‘Not without mounting some defence,’ says Davey.

  ‘It might be possible for someone fit, lush and awesome to hold that entrance against a whole pack of wolves,’ says George. ‘Have I ever told you what a … ’

  ‘Geee-ooorge!’ wails Rhiannon.

  I start to roll my eyes, but suddenly stop, as I see what Rhi is pointing at. There, glowering down at us from the corner of the quarry, is a tall figure, face dark, blackened with what looks like dried blood, and at his back slink the white wolves.

  ‘Gwyn ap Nudd,’ whispers Davey.

  We race, tripping over slabs of slate, stubbing toes and shins, stiff legged, screaming.

  Well, Rhi is screaming. OK, I might be screaming too.

  The scree shifts beneath our tread. George stumbles. Davey hauls Rhi upwards. The ponies panic. My heart pounds. That blackened face. Those hollow red-rimmed eyes.

  And the smell. Rotten. Putrid. George picks himself up, tears past me. ‘RUN ELLIE!’ he shouts.

  Oh my God. If George is scared, it’s real. Nothing ever scares George. It must be bad. I race forward; throw myself at the slide of slate shingle. I gasp for breath. The icy cold hurts my chest.

  The note of the wolves changes. The baying grows louder. They’ve cornered the prey, their victims are within reach.

  Just run, Ellie, I tell myself. Get up there. Get above them. Run. Pray. Hope.

  The ponies are up the little scree. All except Widowmaker. I can’t see him. They’ve reached the crevice. Why the hell did we all dismount? It’s just about wide enough for the fattest of them to get through.

  Oh wait for meeeeeee.

  I feel someone grab my arm, haul me forward, George is there. Oh thank you thank you thank you.

  The wind stops.

  I look back.

  I see why we’ve escaped. I see why the wolves have not yet ripped us to shreds. There stands Widow-maker.

  He is slashing around him, twisting and kicking, rearing and smashing, teeth bared, ears flat back. Two wolves already lie twitching beneath his hooves. He flips and turns like a demon whirlwind. One hoof plunges straight through the skull of a wolf. One catches another wolf under its jugular. Widow-maker heaves and kicks. The dead wolf arcs in a great limp mess of bloodstained fur, away, back down the scree.

  But this time there are just too many wolves.

  And only one pony.

  As I watch, Widow-maker is surrounded. More than ten attack his flank, his rump, three jump on to his back, two more go for his throat.

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  He is dragged down under a sea of growling, biting, jerking, tearing creatures.

  I shut my eyes.

  Nooooooooo.

  He can’t survive, can he?

  This can’t be happening.

  I feel George’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Get inside,’ he says. ‘Let me block the opening. There is nothing that can help him now.’

  Oh Widow-maker. My little black pony from the Welsh mountains.

  Oh no.

  I turn into the cave. Tears well up. A lump the size of a tennis ball blocks my throat.

  Those hideous foul things.

  I can’t swallow.

  Poor, poor Widow-maker.

  —

  What happens now?

  I can’t think.

  Just sniff and sniff.

  If I come down from Cadair a poet, I’ll write a ballad. Widowmaker should be as famous as the faithful Gelert.

  He might still be alive?

  We should go back.

  I feel George’s hand holding me.

  I can’t see properly.

  Inside is much bigger than it first looked – a level floor – I think – I stumble forward.

  George guides me.

  ‘Well found.’ Davey throws his arms around me. ‘Well found! Thank God.’

  ‘Help me, Davey.’ George shouts and starts back for the cave mouth.

  Davey lets go of me, jumps to help George. Together they shift a huge slab of slate across the entrance. Superhuman effort.

  I drag my sleeve across my eyes.

  Oh Widow-maker.

  The cave turns dark. Just breathe. Get control. Swallow tears. There is no way back. The crunch of stone, the smash of slate fragments. The smell of dank cave. George and Davey pant, puff, lean their backs on the slate, ’til it settles into place.

  ‘Thank God,’ repeats Davey.

  The ponies snort and blow. Oh my God. They understand. Tails swish. It’s very dark.

  ‘Are they gone?’ whispers Rhi.

  ‘Not really,’ says George. ‘We may have to make a stand here.’

  George gets out his phone and shines the torch app on the floor. Dull slate – smooth, flat. ‘This quarry might link into the northern tunnels of Llechwedd Slate Mine,’ he says. He shines the torch over the cavern walls. ‘If we can reach Llechwedd, then Cadair is only another thirty-five miles or so away. Tomorrow … if all goes well,’ his voice falters, ‘I’ll take watch.’

  Thirty-five miles.

  The torch beam bounces off great stepped sides of sheer slate. The quarried faces glint back in greys, deep greens, black almost.

  ‘It’s definitely been quarried,’ I stammer.

  Poor, poor, brave Widow-maker.

  At the back of the cave there seems to be an entrance into some kind of gallery.

  ‘We need to be careful,’ says Davey. ‘Knockers are not renowned for being helpful characters. They may have opened up, only to trap us.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cries Rhiannon.

  ‘If we venture into the mine, we might come across a massive underground river that will carry us away. The Knockers may open up a chute beneath us. We won’t even need to be chased into the Underworld by Gwyn ap Nudd, we’ll get there anyway and that’ll be the end of us and our quest.’ Davey’s voice drops mournfully.

  Great. More cheerful by the hour.

  From outside comes the growl of wolves. I look back towards the entrance. Widow-maker is out there, behind the slab, ears flat, teeth bared, throat ripped out. I squeeze my eyes tight, try to erase that image, try to remember him as that brave, rearing, vibrant pony.

  Who gave his life for us.

  George takes his axe from his belt, passes me his torch.

  But before I have time to take it, or Rhiannon can get a fresh groan together, there’s a ring of laughter. It echoes from all around. It ricochets off the walls. It resonates from further unknown caverns.

  ‘You don’t think much of us Knockers, then do ya?’ says a voice, deep, gruff, earthy.

  And into the torchlight steps a company of tiny men. And I mean tiny. They stand about half a metre tall and are all dressed in tiny mining outfits. Tiny picks are slung over tiny shoulders. Tiny hands are folded over tiny che
sts. Cloth wraps or mining helmets are jammed over tiny (ugly) faces (and oh my dayz, those ears!). Tiny cheeks are blackened with slate dust. Tiny belts and boots and waistcoats peek from beneath tiny overalls. Lamps hang on tiny lamp belts and safety hooks, hammers and chisels, cloths and drills and (rather worryingly) tiny sticks of dynamite with very long fuses are clutched in tiny hands. An army of tiny pipes droop from the corners of an army of tiny mouths; everything is in miniature.

  The lead Knocker steps forward, removes his pipe and holds up a stick of dynamite.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us why you’re here, then?’ he says with a mischievous grin. ‘Before we decide to blow you up.’

  1 The Knockers or Coblynau are gnome-like creatures. They are said to be half a yard (one and a half feet) tall, and very ugly. Apparently they dress in miniature mining outfits. They work constantly, but never finish their task, and are said to be able to cause rockslides.[back]

  2 Gwyn ap Nudd is a Welsh mythological figure, the ruler of the Welsh Otherworld – Annwn. He is described as a great warrior with a ‘blackened face’.[back]

  THIRTY-TWO

  However tiny a stick of dynamite is, it’s still worrying, isn’t it? Although blowing us up would mean blowing themselves up too. Which I’m guessing they might not want to do.

  But then how would I know?

  I’ve never met a Knocker before.

  Three of them flick on the headlamps attached to the fronts of their tiny hard hats. They step up behind their leader. The glare of the lamps is directed straight up at Davey.

  ‘Well, come on – spit it out! You don’t think much of us Knockers, do ya?’ repeats one of them.

  Davey squares his shoulders, stops stooping, coughs. ‘Erm, I do not have an opinion on the Coblynau,’ he says. ‘I have never sought their help before, and would not have done so now, had we not been in great need.’

  Ouch. That was definitely a less-than-uber answer.

  A shiver goes through the group of Knockers.

  ‘Ha! We’ve got a sparker, have we?’ says one of them.

  ‘Not very polite, is he?’ says another.

  ‘What does he mean with his “do not have an opinion”?’ says a third.

  ‘Cheek, I call it,’ adds a fourth.

  Then all of them start.

  ‘He’s a cheeker.’

  ‘He should have an opinion.’

  ‘Ain’t we big enough to have an opinion on?’

  ‘I’ll give him “an opinion” all right!’

  The sound of a scuffle at the cave entrance interrupts them. A wild howling comes from the direction of the boulder. I flick the torch towards the slab. Shadows on the walls glide and spring. Maybe they’ve found a way through. Before Rhi can squeal, a company of Knockers quick-marches over to the closed-off entrance.

  ‘What the black-damp’s going on outside in the world of men, that they send out Gwynny Nudder himself?’ says another one of them.

  ‘Has the world gone nutters?’ The murmuring starts again.

  ‘Five goafers, blinkers enough to enter our kingdom!’

  ‘With their carriers,’ says another, ‘don’t forget them hoofed carriers!’

  The leader, a slightly taller Knocker – bigger than the rest, anyway – takes another step towards us. He’s got a thick apron of weird coloured cloth held firm around his middle. He looks like the biggest little person in the world.

  I step up and stand beside Davey. If they’ve got it in for him, they’re going to have to deal with me too. The Knockers notice.

  Outside, the howling changes key, becomes somehow fiercer, more menacing.

  ‘She’s a jumper for you, Boss!’ laughs one of them. ‘She’ll be like your iron staff, jumping all over you!’

  I’m not sure what a ‘jumper’ is, but if I have to jump on them, so be it.

  ‘We come in peace,’ says Davey trying to regain lost ground.

  Rhiannon isn’t so tactful. ‘Are you actually a hobbit?’ she asks.

  Maybe a chute opening up under her might not be such a bad idea.

  But the Knockers don’t seem offended. They fall about laughing. One of them starts hammering on the wall. They all start hammering on the wall. The cavern booms with their hammering. I cover my ears.

  When the din dies down a bit, the boss says, ‘She’s a fair charmer, a fair charmer indeed, and she’s got an adder stone m’boys’.

  Suddenly they all go quiet.

  Not a laugh. Not a knock.

  They flick off their headlamps. The cave goes dark.

  ‘I have asked a question,’ says the boss, all scary now, whispering through the dark. ‘Though you’ve quite forgotten it. But it would be respectful and polite of you to answer me.’

  Not a giggle, not a whisper.

  I gulp; I stand up straight, and say, ‘OK … ’

  ‘No not you, you jumper,’ yell the Knockers. ‘Her, the charmer. She must answer the boss’s question.’

  Holy smoke, they mean Rhiannon!

  We are doomed.

  ‘Tell us about your mission,’ says the taller boss Knocker. A score of lamps suddenly flick on, trained completely on Rhiannon.

  ‘I don’t know anything, they never tell me anything,’ stammers Rhiannon.

  Her answer seems to delight them.

  ‘Lovely, lovely, lovely!’ they chant.

  ‘What a charmer! Lovely charmer!’ yell the Knockers, as if they’ve just heard the best answer ever.

  ‘Tell them – you muppet,’ I hiss.

  The howling outside seems to reach a frenzied pitch.

  ‘It’s cos I did a witches’ spell … I think,’ she mumbles.

  The Knockers seen even more delighted, and start tapping their hammers on the walls again. They set up a rhythm, and one of them breaks into a song:

  ‘She’s the charmer who set the spell,’

  Another takes it up:

  ‘She’s the one to make it well,

  She’s the witch with the adder stone,

  She’s come to visit us – at home!

  She’s the charmer,

  We can’t be wrong,

  She’s the one to sing the song!’

  ‘Oh Kaaay … ’ I say hesitantly. I cast a hopeful look at George – extend it to Davey, but they are looking away from me. Cowards. Looks like I’m going to have to get Rhiannon out of this all on my own.

  ‘It wasn’t her fault … ’ I say, lying. ‘The spell released the Olde Deepe Magicke.’

  The Knockers start drumming the floor. One of them even does a little tap dance.

  ‘The White Dragon is loose, the whole of Snowdonia is under the grip of the Fimbulvetr … ’ I yell, trying to explain over all the noise. ‘We are going to try and break the spell … ’

  Before any of them can respond, a squad of Knockers comes stumbling into the cave, dragging two white creatures behind them, one with its throat cut, fur stained red; the other still in its death throes.

  ‘Howlers,’ they announce, ‘rushed our northern door … outside … howling their howls to the north wind … ’

  ‘Well done, well done m’boys,’ says the boss.

  The little squad throws down the two wolves and each of the Knockers doubles up, catching their breath.

  One of them pants out: ‘In the great white, a dragon in the sky … he’s a mighty thrasher … whirling about like a great blower, pouring down snow … every peak … down the full range.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says the boss, ‘our charmer told us all about the Fimbulvetr.’

  I gulp. So unfair! Rhiannon didn’t say a thing.

  ‘Well, well,’ says the boss, ‘we’ll have to decide what to do, and you boys better arrange for the singer to learn the song, but first of all – we cannot think on empty chompers.’

  And with that he produces a whistle, which he blows sharply. Into the cave – right on cue – comes a procession of other Knockers carrying torches, then more carrying platters upon which are arranged piles of f
ood.

  Food!

  Masses of it!

  My eyes! George’s face!

  Haunches of deer, great knuckles of pork, shanks of lamb, legs of chicken, sides of beef, some dripping with sauce, some garnished with herbs, veggies, all kinds: fresh, roast, boiled, diced, sliced, cubed and mashed. Oh yum!

  ‘Oh YESSSS!’ says George.

  ‘The taller says “YESSSS”,’ repeat the Knockers.

  ‘Definitely,’ says George, ‘this here taller, whatever that is, is one hell of a hungry taller. What he needs is a good meal. Then he can sit down and make a good plan.’

  The Knockers like that and haul George over to the table.

  And without further hesitation, George sits himself down at the great stone table, where the platters are laid, and starts shovelling food on to a piece of slate.

  God, he’s such a greedy guts.

  I’m starving too, but I’m wondering if it’s all right to eat anything. I seem to remember Gran saying something about never eating food or accepting a drink from any magically inclined stranger – especially once you are in their kingdom …

  I look at Davey, with his thin, pale, under-nourished look. No answers there. He’s so scrawny he looks like he hardly eats anyway. As if he reads my thoughts, he says, ‘I only eat that which is not cooked – raw food, and bread and salt’.

  Yeah. I seem to remember.

  The boss gives him a funny look and says, ‘Well you’re in the wrong movie then, aren’t you?’ Which is really random, but actually quite funny, coming from a hobbit/gnome/leprechaun-thing like him.

  With that, the boss claps his hands. In comes more food: bunches of grapes, mountains of peaches, strawberries, raspberries and great slices of watermelon with rosy skins. The Knockers pile them up in front of Davey.

  ‘Eat: you need to stay strong, you strange, bald goafer,’ says the boss cheerfully.1

  And with that, the boss sits down, fills up his goblet, drinks thirstily and piles food enough for about six full-grown men on to an assortment of bowls and plates around him.

  And at that moment, when everyone’s mouth and hands are full, a MASSIVE crash resounds through the cavern.

  I jerk my head up.

  My heart rate shoots up, way above healthy.