Here Be Witches Read online

  And into the cave strides a HUGE female Knocker. Her red hair is braided down to her waist; her wide trousers are tucked into thigh-high mining boots. In her hand she carries a MASSIVE pickaxe and a HUMONGOUS hammer. Honestly, she’s way bigger, even than George.

  She steps up to the wolves – one is still twitching on the floor – and with a swing of her hammer, smashes through its skull. Blood and bone spray over the walls of the cavern. Then with one more stride, she reaches the table, kicks lesser Knockers out of the way and smashes the pick down into it. It penetrates deep into the stone tabletop, splinters fly, the table quivers, slates break.

  George drops his fork.

  I shrink behind a table leg.

  The boss looks up, catches a bottle of something as it threatens to crash over.

  ‘Oh, hiya Nan,’ he says.

  Nan grabs the bottle off him and drains it in one draught.

  ‘Wh-wh-who is she?’ whimpers Rhiannon.

  The boss fills his goblet from a second bottle, and says, ‘Meet Nan – my granny, Dad’s side. She’s your music teacher.’ And with his mouth full, and his goblet held high, the boss shouts at a nearby group: ‘Take. The. Pretty. One. Nan will teach her the SINGING.’

  The Knockers move over to Rhiannon, catch her by the hand. Nan drains the next bottle of wine in one swig and does the same with three more.

  She strides out again.

  ‘Better do what he says, Rhi,’ I suggest. ‘Nan doesn’t look like the kind to be kept waiting.’

  Horror-stricken, Rhiannon is escorted out. I hear her whimpering. Her shadow dances into the distance, along the walls of a long gallery, until it dwindles and merges with the darkness. Even the flickering reflection of the torches fades, becoming mere pinpricks of light.

  Her last sobs echo and die.

  I gulp.

  I think the Knockers have taken a great shine to her. Tee hee. Poor old Rhi.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Should I race after her?

  ‘Eat,’ says the boss, deciding for me.

  He pushes a huge pie at me. ‘Ain’t you goafers got any manners?’

  1 I learnt afterwards that goafer is actually a mining term for waste material. Essentially, it means waste of space. Charming.[back]

  THIRTY-THREE

  I look at the food. My taste buds tingle. I don’t know what to do. Tuck in? I really am hungry. Or heed Gran’s warnings and hold back?

  And Rhiannon. I ought to follow her – make sure she’s OK. After all, she may be a hateful double-crossing bwitch, but she’s still my friend. Plus how do I know what the Knockers will do to her? She might be having a great time. I’m not a mind reader like Davey, am I?

  Slight problem. How am I going to follow her? I glance at the boss. I’ll have to think up something.

  Maybe George could go after her, or Davey?

  I look at Davey. He’s gazing at a bread roll.

  I look at George. He’s reaching for another knuckle of lamb.

  I don’t even know where they’ve taken her.

  I look at the wolf with the hammered-in skull.

  My heroic impulses shrink.

  And I’m far too hungry to do anything without eating. And the smell of the food is intoxicating. I lean across the table and snatch up a chicken drumstick in one hand. With the other I take an apple from the pile, send up a silent prayer to the mountains and bite down.

  Oooooh crisp apple juice.

  Divine!

  And, yum, succulent tender chicken …

  —

  I’m not sure I should have just eaten that chicken … or maybe that apple … things seem to go a bit jumbled after my first nibble … I’m sure I eat a lot more … maybe I even drink some of that winey stuff … not sure it was wine … I’m sure I hear music … something far away and beautiful … definitely a melody …

  —

  A pile of skins lies on the floor. A fire is lit. Smoke streams upward across the cave roof and out through some cracks. It stings my eyes. I rub them. It’s very dark, I can scarcely see. And I feel soooo tired.

  I’m lying down on the furs. George is next to me.

  ‘Ah, at last I get to spend the night with the girl I love,’ he whispers.

  ‘Stop it!’ I say and slap at a random hand that has landed on mine.

  ‘What a pity,’ says George. ‘Just when a cuddle would make everything perfect.’

  ‘Do not be too sure it’s so perfect,’ says Davey, from somewhere near, in the darkness.

  Here we go again. Old Mr Cheerful.

  ‘These are the Coblynau, gnomes of the earth, Knockers that mine the mountains in search of gold. For Welsh gold is very special and it is from Welsh gold that they wrought the Golden Throne of Arthur, which lies buried beneath the Pass of Arrows. From Welsh gold they manufactured the magical harps of the Old Ones. They are focused only upon gold under their mountains, and they have no dealings with us from above. I mistrust their friendliness.’

  He definitely should have tried the food. It’d have helped him chill out a lot.

  ‘Anything else, a little gloomier, you might want to add to that?’ I mumble.

  ‘They have only let us stay because the enchantment covering them is broken. If it stays broken, men will find their way into the mines and the Coblynau will have to retreat to the deeper caves, and in the deepest of all, there is the Afanc.’1

  My head clears. ‘Why not sneak back to the table and go for that bread roll you fancied?’ I suggest.

  ‘They help us, perhaps, because they want the enchantment cast over Snowdonia to be ended. They want to get back to their mining. They want to get back to holding their golden goblets and talking about their piles of gold.’

  ‘Whichever way you look at it,’ says George, still trying to snuggle up to me, ‘they have helped us. All that food for starters – and let’s not forget we were out on a mountainside with nothing but old Gwyn Ap Nudd and a load of wolves.’

  Widow-maker.

  ‘What about the ponies?’ I say, suddenly worried.

  ‘I made it my business while you were eating to check up on all of our faithful steeds,’ says Davey. (Crikey, he is the little saint, isn’t he?) ‘They have been well stabled, and the grey mare has received the attentions of a Knocker who has the healing power of animals. Her wound has been bound over with a plaster of yellow Welsh gold, which has the power of curing all wounds. Tomorrow she will be strong enough to carry on.’

  ‘Phew,’ I say. ‘We only have tomorrow, remember?’

  ‘Yes, we must pass out from under these hills and reach Cadair Idris.’

  ‘Rhiannon got back OK?’ mumbles George into the darkness.

  ‘RHIANNON!!!’ I squeal.

  ‘Yeah … ’ George says sleepily. ‘You know: fair hair, pretty, slim, in love with … ’

  ‘Oh no!’ I shriek. I sit up and search the shadows.

  NO RHIANNON!

  —

  Far away, deep underground, through a maze of tangled galleries, through huge passages; through solid slate, past open caverns where stalagmites grow like the obelisks of ancient Egypt over deep subterranean rivers, there is a chamber. And in the chamber sits a maiden.

  She bends her pretty head and listens to a melody.

  ‘Yes, listen,’ says the Knocker Queen. ‘For you are The One. You hold the adder stone.’

  ‘But, I can’t be,’ says the maiden. ‘And anyway it was given to me, by George’s Gran.’

  ‘But you are a witch,’ says the Knocker Queen.

  ‘Well, not really, it’s not like I went to Hogwarts or anything, I was just doing love spell thingies,’ says the maiden.

  ‘But you released the Olde Deepe Magicke,’ says the Knocker Queen.

  ‘Yeah, but it was just an accident … ’

  ‘And you have the voice of an angel,’ says the Knocker Queen.

  ‘Aw, d’you really think so?’ says the maiden.

  ‘And you are The One foretold of b
y The Song,’ says the Knocker Queen.

  ‘I am?’ says the maiden. ‘That’s news to me.’

  The Knocker Queen softly chants the Knockers’ prophecy:

  ‘She’s the charmer who set the spell,

  She’s the one to make it well,

  She’s the witch with the adder stone,

  Who’ll vanquish the Afanc all-alone.’

  ‘You see,’ says the Knocker Queen, ‘the Oracle of the Menhir of Mawr cannot be wrong.’

  ‘Wow!’ says the maiden.

  ‘So hold the adder stone to your lips, and sing the song I will teach you to sing through the stone,’ instructs the Knocker Queen.

  The melody is lovely. It floats through the air and those that hear it are spellbound. It could tame a lion, it could gentle the north wind and Rhiannon has a good ear and a lovely sweet Welsh voice. She lifts up her chin and sings it as if she has known this song all her life.

  ‘And now the instructions to defeat the sinker,’ says the Knocker Queen.

  ‘When the water boils,

  And the ripples rip,

  Place the adder stone to your lips.

  When the monster roars,

  And hope is gone,

  Find the tune and sing the song.

  When the Afanc on you does dote,

  Take this blade and cut its throat.’

  ‘CUT ITS THROAT!’ squeals Rhiannon.

  ‘Never fear,’ says the Knocker Queen. ‘You are The One, and in ridding this world of the Afanc, you will become the friend of the Knockers forever.’

  The music rises and echoes from the chamber wall.

  It is surreal, sublime, and it gives the maiden strength.

  ‘Fulfil the prophecy and undo a great harm.’

  ‘OK,’ mumbles Rhiannon.

  ‘I will return you to your friends now, but don’t forget the things I have told you.’

  ‘But how will I know when?’ asks Rhiannon.

  The Knocker Queen laughs. ‘Oh, you’ll know all right!’

  ‘But how?’ insists Rhiannon.

  ‘Because if you don’t act, the sinker will sink you all.’

  1 The Afanc is a lake monster from Welsh mythology that inhabits many lakes and all the subterranean caverns and rivers. Like most lake monsters, it is said to prey upon anyone foolish enough to stray too close to, fall in, or swim in its waters.[back]

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the morning, Rhi is back.

  Thank heavens.

  When we ask her what happened, she’s curiously quiet.

  We don’t see the boss again. A small party – five or six of them – arrives to wake us up. They bring the ponies and have loaded on to each of them huge parcels, stuffed full with food.

  ‘Brilliant,’ says George. ‘Wow! Breakfast too. If you promise I’ll never have to chop wood again – I’ll move in and eat everything you can think of giving me.’

  ‘Not without me, you won’t,’ says Rhiannon.

  I’m not at all sure we should eat any more Knocker food. Seems like it’s much too rich. Knocks you out. Lol.

  Get it?

  Knocks you out. OK. Whatevs.

  The Knockers look at each other rather sadly. They turn to Rhiannon. ‘You mean you actually likes him?’ says one of them. ‘You likes a taller like that?’

  One of the others starts slapping his thighs and stomping his feet and rolling his eyes and keeps on repeating; ‘She likes the taller! She likes the taller, when she could have any Knocker she fancied!’ until Rhiannon blushes and we’re all really fed up.

  ‘Exactly where did you go last night, Rhi?’ asks George for the umpteenth time.

  Rhiannon shakes her head and looks worried.

  —

  The Knockers lead the way down a maze of galleries. The first passage we take is stunning. It meanders left and right through large, clean-washed beds of slate. The slabbed floors undulate in geometric waves. Here the passage is very large and a soft wind sighs through it.

  From time to time, a high borehole tunnel disappears off from the main gallery, its grey walls, lit by the odd single flaming brand, and the rock face seems to glow yellow and rusty red.

  As we pass each borehole, the flicker of torchlight suggests a depth and darkness that makes me shiver. Even Keincaled swishes his tail nervously and seems anxious to reach the exit of the mines.

  At one of the junctions the Knockers stop. ‘We got to get back now m’boys,’ says an older looking Knocker, who seems to be in charge. ‘Wyrrik, you know what to do.’

  His voice is hard, sinister almost. My eyes widen in alarm. Is this the bit where the Now-You-Know-Our-Secret-We-Have-To-Kill-You-Thing happens?

  One of the Knockers steps forward. ‘I’m Wyrrik. I’ll accompany you as far as the South Gate. After that, we wish you well, and hope to the buddlers some other Childer of Llyr will help you too.’

  Phew, big sigh of relief.

  ‘We thank you,’ says Davey. ‘We are all deeply grateful.’

  Lol. Davey’s suddenly Mr Big Chief Spokesperson for everyone.

  I narrow my eyes and fix them on him. I’m still working on my theory that he is an ‘entity’ too, some conjuration of the Olde Deepe Magicke. I mean that guru look, with that bald patch. That pale skin with the pimples. He’s got to be. Nobody these days would let themselves look like that, would they?

  But which ‘entity’? I’m studying him closely, for clues.

  Davey turns and looks at me. He smiles. A smile that says: I know what you’re thinking. I know that you don’t know who I am, or why I appeared – right when you needed me.

  I raise one shoulder and let it drop. It’s true, I don’t know, but as sure as hell, I’m going to try and find out.

  ‘I’m not sure who I am myself,’ he says, as if he can read my thoughts and as if that’s still something that puzzles him too. ‘But when I found myself up on the mountain, I knew I had a mission to fulfil. Some voice in my head told me to forget who I was, because Wales was in its hour of greatest need, and I was required to help. Then I met you and George and the fair Rhiannon. Now I see it much more clearly. I’m certain: part of my mission is to accompany you as far as I can, and to assist in breaking the witches’ spell, because in that way, I can serve Wales best.’

  I raise one side of my mouth. ‘Let’s hope we can do it.’

  ‘Aw, glad you came along,’ says George, slapping him on the back.

  Davey smiles at George, murmurs, ‘Just the little things. Makes all the difference.’

  Rhiannon smiles super sweetly at George too.

  Then she smiles at me.

  I frown smile back.

  —

  We journey on.

  We come upon a crystal-clear, turquoise-blue lake, below a rock bridge. We cross the bridge and plunge into deeper passages, darker and older than the Bronze Age. Probably. We wind down them through the mountains.

  On and on, until at last we reach a huge timbered door.

  ‘Ah, the South Gate.’ Wyrrik hauls on a pulley mechanism on a nearby wall. He grunts a bit with the effort because he is very small and the doors are very large. George jumps off Graine and helps him. And the doors swing open.

  Daylight, cold air and the blinding glare of snow greet us.

  The smell of frost.

  The sound of branches creaking under their white load.

  This is it.

  It’s still here: the Fimbulvetr.

  It’s dawn on the third day of the Magicke.

  Oh Henry, you believed in me. I’ll try to do my best.

  I wish I could see the future like you can.

  I wish I could see what today holds.

  What tomorrow will bring.

  I wish I could be with you.

  Just one more time.

  ACT THREE

  The Mabinogion

  PEREDUR THE SON OF EVRAWC

  And when Peredur came into the hall, there was a tall and stately lady sitting in a chair, and many handmaidens ar
ound her; and the lady rejoiced at his coming.

  And when it was time, they went to meat. And after their repast was finished, ‘It were well for thee, chieftain,’ said she, ‘to go elsewhere to sleep.’

  ‘Wherefore can I not sleep here?’ said Peredur.

  ‘Nine sorceresses are here, my soul, of the sorceresses of Gloucester, and their father and their mother are with them; and unless we can make our escape before daybreak, we shall be slain; and already they have conquered and laid waste all the country, except this one dwelling.’

  Day Three: 19 March

  Until the Mountains are Washed to the Sea

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The second we are out of the slate caverns, my phone starts pinging.

  ELLIE’S PHONE Third Day of the Magic – 19 March 06.00

  Status: Cold. Unhappy. Poor Widow-maker. Worried. Panicking.

  Only today left to do everything.

  Missed Calls:

  Mum (7)

  Granny Jones (3)

  Meryl (16)

  07967843521 (2)

  Recent updates:

  Sheila

  What is up with you? And where ARE you? ALL of you?

  Sheila

  You’re up to something, aren’t you?

  Meryl

  Hon, what’s happening? You aren’t picking up? Sheila’s been over twice to quiz me on where you are? I’m worried. Text me.

  Sheila

  Is it anything to do with those cadets training over at Bangor?

  Mum

  Darling, I’ve been calling and calling you. And I know Gran says you and George and Rhiannon are OK, and I SHOULDN’T worry, and I do trust her, but I AM YOUR MUM and I do worry. It’s just not like you to not ring or text or anything.

  The school keeps ringing up as well, to say they hope you’re feeling better?? Rhiannon’s mum rang to say she hopes everything is going well with the geography field trip???!!!