Here Be Witches Page 23

  Coming from Rhiannon.

  Rhiannon?

  I’m being pulled through the deep. I try to kick out, grab at whatever is drowning me. But it breaks my hold.

  I kick and I scratch. I want to scream.

  But there’s no air.

  No throat.

  No chest.

  No light.

  I try to open my eyes, blink out the dark.

  A blow lands on my head.

  This is it.

  The black has turned deep green.

  I feel dizzy.

  I open my eyes and I can see. Everywhere is faintly green.

  I am below the surface of the ancient llyn. And there is a lady with me.

  And her face is white as bleached bones. And she says: welcome Ellie.

  She tosses back her hair and it streams away from her pale face like dark seaweed.

  And around her throat is a necklace. Each bead glistens, iridescent, as if deep inside each bead a rainbow flickers.

  She bends her head. She says: ‘use the mirror’.

  And the lights around her fade.

  —

  I understand. If only I can get hold of the mirror … I tug and tug. I try and free it from its place inside my jacket pocket. If I could tell Henry …

  At last!

  I raise the mirror up, look into its depths.

  And I see where we sat on the rock and looked out over a stretch of water and …

  I remember Henry’s words.

  ‘The adder stone!’

  That’s what the mirror had been trying to show us!

  The lake. The Afanc. Rhiannon and the adder stone.

  I try and transmit the thought to Rhiannon.

  I hear the words of the lady of the lake reminding me.

  Use the mirror.

  ‘Rhiannon,’ I say into the mirror. ‘USE THE ADDER STONE!’

  —

  I glance back at the lady. Her dark hair swirls around her face. ‘Keep looking into the mirror,’ she prompts.

  And through the mirror I see a girl is rising up through the water. In her hand she holds an adder stone. She is singing. The song is beautiful. It sounds familiar. I think it is the song I heard last night echoing through the slate caverns. The girl is very lovely, golden hair held back by a band of shining pearls.

  She looks like Rhiannon, as Rhiannon was intended to look, in the mind of the great creator.

  She smiles and holds the adder stone to her lips. And she continues singing that song of such bewitching sadness through its airy centre. She rises out of the water and stands at the lake’s edge. The song grows louder, the melody sweeter, the words more enchanting.

  Out of the lake crawls the Afanc, huge, loathsome, a creature of ice and earth. The shore trembles as it heaves clear of the water. A rip tide swells, bellies out of the llyn, as it hauls itself on to the land.

  And Rhiannon continues singing.

  Her voice is pure, fluid, but even as I peer into the mirror, I see her hand shake.

  Slowly, she steps along the edge of the lake and seats herself on a great rock. Slowly the Afanc crawls towards her.

  Rhiannon!

  I want to shout.

  Warn her.

  Call out.

  Surely using the adder stone is meant to protect her?

  ‘Rhiannon!’ I shout into the mirror.

  Her voice does not waver. Not once does she let the adder stone slip from her lips.

  At last the Afanc towers over her.

  Oh Rhiannon!

  This is not what should happen.

  But just when I think all is lost, and Rhiannon will be swallowed alive, the creature lowers itself, slides to her feet, lays its great icy head on her lap, and looks up at her through darkened eyes.

  —

  ‘He will sleep now,’ says the lady. ‘His final sleep. All will be well.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘I am always sure,’ she replies.

  ‘Where am I?’ I say.

  ‘In Ynys Afallon.’1

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Some call it Avalon,’ she replies.

  ‘And who are you?’ I ask. ‘And where are George and Davey?’

  ‘I have already sent them to find Idris,’ she says.

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘I am the Lady of the Lake; my name is Viviane, but you can call me Nimue. It is for Merlin’s sake that I have saved you. He cast his Magick over these mountains, so that they should stand forever and be a refuge for those creatures that hide from the eyes of men. It was not only the dragons that were enthralled to him. With his Magick undone, all are at risk, both fair and foul. Go quickly to the Stargazer and find a way to break this witches’ spell.’

  ‘Where is Rhiannon?’ I say, casting a look back into the mirror.

  ‘As for her,’ sighs Nimue, ‘she betrayed you, and her fate is out of my hands. When she allied herself with the Supreme One, she removed herself from any power I have.’

  ‘Who is the Supreme One?’ I ask.

  ‘She is the First One, the rawness of the Earth, the Goddess of Fecundity. She is terrible and she is great. She knows no law of any Magick, High or Deep. She finds willing followers wherever there are girls who seek her powers.’

  ‘So she’s … ’

  ‘She is not mortal – she is a force, but she can be hosted by one who invites her in.’

  ‘Sort of like an incubus?’ I ask. ‘A parasite that takes you over and makes you do horrible things?’

  ‘Sort of,’ replies Nimue, ‘but much more powerful, for she is obscene and revolting – but if you meet her, you will love her and that love will be your destruction. For she boasts, “I am the womb and the tomb – the entire universe within the void.” But, enough of Na Gig, for that is her true name. Instead make haste to the Bed of Idris and remember these lines, for it is said that:

  “On the feast day of St Cuthbert,

  When saints can play their part,

  Where sleepers sleep, and mirrors crack,

  By traitor’s blood and hero’s art,

  It will take a sacrifice, to purify the heart.”

  ‘I will do what I can for your friend Rhiannon, for she has subdued the Afanc and helped you. She has one last act to perform. And I will guide her hand, and for that she will forever be a favourite among the Coblynau, those who mankind call the Knockers. Never fear. Now hurry. Look deep into my mirror and trust its magic. When you awake far from here, fear not.’

  Everything fades to black.

  1 Ynys Afallon – or Avalon – is also called the Fortunate Isle. It is a legendary, enchanted lake island, situated underwater. The sword Caledfwlch was forged there and, after his battle at the Pass of Arrows, Arthur was taken to Avalon, a place of healing, to recover from his wounds.[back]

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Before I even open my eyes, I know I am at the in-between place. I sigh in happiness.

  I know he is here with me.

  ‘Exquisite!’ says the voice that I’ve been longing to hear.

  I open my eyes. I look around. I am once again in Halfway House. Exactly where I’ve always wanted to be.

  We’re sitting on the old bench in front of a roaring fire. So familiar. Candles burning. The logs smell of pine. It’s like we’ve never left – since that day we first met. A blanket is wrapped round both of us. Firelight sparkles off it in little dancing flickers. Together we cuddle under it.

  Utterly magical.

  There are tins heating up in the embers, we are warming ourselves and breathing in the pine-scented air. Beans sizzle, corned beef melts. The fire throws out golden shadows. They glow from the old stone walls.

  Henry tips beans and corned beef on to a solitary plate.

  ‘Like old times, isn’t it?’ he says.

  Oh. I. Am. So. Happy.

  The food tastes of cinder and salt, baked beans and tinned meat. Delicious.

  I look into his dark eyes and he smiles and says, ‘More
, my Lady?’

  I smile back, not able to find words. My mouth is full anyway. I can hardly chew; can hardly swallow, so I just smile.

  Smile and smile.

  Two old cracked mugs are filled with fresh snow. We stand them by the fire until they melt. Snow tastes so funny. We toast each other with that melted snow as if it were the finest champagne.

  ‘To you, Ellie,’ he says.

  ‘To you, Henry,’ I reply.

  ‘To us,’ we laugh together.

  ‘Look at that,’ points out Henry. He raises his cracked mug at the words etched in stone over the fireplace.

  Fight Fire With Fire

  ‘What exactly do they mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Well Shakespeare first made the phrase popular when he put the words in a play. He wrote:

  “Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;

  Threaten the threatener and outface the brow

  Of bragging horror.”’

  ‘The brow of bragging horror?’ I say. Sounds scary. Instantly I shiver. The lovely exquisite feeling disappears.

  ‘But they come from a much older lore.’

  ‘What lore?’

  ‘The Way of Dragons,’ says Henry.

  ‘Why are you showing them to me?’ I ask. I know now these visits to the in-between place have a purpose. I’m supposed to learn something.

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘FIGHT FIRE WITH FIRE.’

  ‘But … ’

  ‘Think Ellie … ’

  Henry is fading …

  ‘Think: when you want to stop the path of fire, you have to burn out anything flammable … ’

  The fire dies down. The candles snuff out.

  ‘Henry?’

  —

  When I awake, I’m lying on a great bed of rock. I am as cold as stone. I am positioned as if I have been laid out to rest. High above me are stars. I blink. I try to figure out what’s happened.

  All I can remember is FIGHT FIRE WITH FIRE and the words that the Lady of the Lake told me:

  ‘On the feast day of St Cuthbert,

  When saints can play their part,

  Where sleepers sleep, and mirrors crack,

  By traitor’s blood and hero’s art,

  It will take a sacrifice, to purify the heart.’

  I try to understand what she meant. If only I could get a signal up here I could google St Cuthbert …

  Everything’s a muddle.

  I stare upwards.

  Standing over me is the tallest man imaginable. I swear he must be about twelve feet tall and more. He has straight golden hair down to his waist, a great beard and dark gentle eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ I say.

  ‘You have been calling for me,’ he says, ‘by name.’

  ‘Huh?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Unless there are two Idris Gawrs. Two giants of Cadair?’

  The Stargazer? He must be!

  I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe some kind of mythical giant who’s pretty dumb and carries a club? A bit like the trolls in The Hobbit. You know, stupid, cruel, lumpish.

  Idris isn’t dumb-looking; he isn’t fat or troll-like either.

  And he’s definitely not cruel. In fact his eyes are the kindest ever. He’s just a very nice sort of man, but built on a much bigger scale and crazily tall.

  ‘Where am I?’ I ask.

  ‘You are on the summit of Cadair Idris, my mountain-top, and you are lying on my bed of stone,’ says Idris, not unkindly.

  ‘How did I get here?’ I say. ‘I thought I was under a lake.’

  ‘The Lady Nimue sent you to me. You are lucky to have won her favour, and for her sake I will hear your cause.’

  I try to take that in. I was under a lake, but I’m not wet. I’m on top of a mountain, but not out of breath.

  Idris continues: ‘Though I saw that you would come. The stars foretold this meeting, and I know you have a task for me, but first of all, before I hear your case, you must answer me this question: Why should I help you? Why should I meddle at all in the affairs of men? Why should I take the part of the Red Dragon or act against the White?’

  I look up at him. I don’t have an answer – only that he should help us, because … he should. I mean, Henry is good. Henry is the best – and Oswald isn’t. Henry wants to protect Snowdonia. Oswald wants the Fimbulvetr to destroy everything …

  But instead of saying anything, I just stare blankly at him.

  ‘Many many centuries – no – millennia ago, I foreswore all contact with mankind, and yet you seek me out, you shift me from my bed and from my dearest dreams. You wake me up, and want me to help you, and here I am asking you why.’

  He looks at me with huge, sad, kind eyes.

  I lie there staring at him. Actually, looking at it from his point of view, I don’t know why he should help me, but equally, I don’t see why he shouldn’t. Like, I don’t know what keeps him staring at the stars, and philosophising, and I don’t know why he ‘foreswore all contact with mankind’, and until I know these things, I can’t really answer his questions. Can I?

  But, I’ve got a feeling that unless I answer his questions, I can’t ask him to help us; so I simply look up at him and say, ‘What is there – up there – in the stars? Why do you look at them? Why have you forsaken all things upon the earth?’

  He turns his back on me and walks a few metres away.

  I glance around and see the others laid out beside me – on some kind of stone ledge – though it’s majorly dark. I see Davey on one side and George on the other. No Rhiannon, worryingly. George and Davey have their arms folded across their chests and lie as still as statues.

  A chill creeps over me. Is this a bed of rest or a resting place for the dead?

  I reach over and touch George’s hand. Cold as ice. I suck in air. Try to get hold of myself. Stay calm Ellie. Even if it’s the worst, you can still break the spell. Everything will be restored to how it was. You can still save George.

  But I don’t know if that’s true.

  Will everything be the same? Will George be saved if I break the spell? Perhaps nothing will ever be the same again.

  And I can’t break any spell, not without George. He’s always been there.

  Always.

  Right from the first moment I saw Snowdon.

  George running down the mountainside to greet me. George promising to show me every stone, every blade, every stream. George and me exploring, rock climbing, scraping knees, climbing trees, catching slow-worms and watching the peregrines. George and me walking home from school in Llanberis. George and me on summer evenings, chatting about nothing, about football, food, mobile phones and Rhiannon and how she’s always embarrassing herself by falling all over him.

  ‘Oh George,’ I whisper.

  Nothing. Not the flicker of an eyelid, not the shadow of a smile.

  I remember the words of the old curse that lies over Cadair:

  ‘In the land of Merioneth is a high hill that is called Cadair Idris. And on the highest crown is a bed-shaped form, great in length and width. And this is called The Bed of Idris. And it is said that whoever sleeps upon that bed, one of two things will happen to him: either he will wake a hero, or never wake again … ’

  I woke up – does that mean I’m a hero?

  But something isn’t right about the way I’m remembering it. I’m sure there was some line about a poet? I struggle to remember the words correctly. They evaporate in my mind. I cannot shake off a conviction that if George does not wake up now, he never will.

  I shake him. ‘George!’ I cry.

  Please, don’t let anything happen to George.

  And I realise how very much I care about him. How important he is to me. How he has always been soooo important. How I’ve never acknowledged it, and suddenly I can’t imagine a future wi
thout him.

  I shake his shoulder. ‘George!’ I shout at him.

  I yell into his face, ‘GEORGE!’

  There’s a long, deep silence. I can hear my heart beating. His face is so deathly pale. My blood feels as if it’s clotting, clogging up in my veins … the marrow of my bones is turning in on itself … I’m confused …

  No George?

  THIRTY-NINE

  Idris walks back towards me. I see that he’s troubled, there’s pain in his eyes. His face looks tired.

  This can’t be right.

  My voice trembles. ‘George?’ I say. ‘Can you help him?’

  There has to be George. In my past. In my present.

  In my future.

  ‘He sleeps.’

  ‘Sleeps as in the sleep of the dead?’

  Idris does not answer. My heart sinks so quickly I feel dizzy.

  ‘I, on the other hand, do not sleep,’ he says. ‘You have woken me, and you must tell me why.’

  I swallow air. I sway. I can’t think. I’m trembling. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I need your help.’

  ‘But you have not answered my question,’ says Idris. ‘Why should I help a race of beings that has brought a thousand years of unhappiness to me?’

  ‘Whoever created your unhappiness,’ I say, ‘it wasn’t me, or Henry, or George. None of what is happening is our doing.’ The snow glints in a bright, white blanket under the stars.

  ‘It really isn’t George’s fault. He doesn’t deserve this.’ I pick up George’s hand. So cold. ‘Nor is it Davey’s,’ I add. I know Davey’s annoying, but he is on our side and he definitely doesn’t need to die.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I also read that in the stars … ’

  ‘Then why – ?’

  ‘One thing at a time. You were saying … ’

  I breathe in, steady myself. ‘It’s because of this spell over Snowdonia, that I’ve come,’ I say. My voice trembles. ‘It is the work of the White Dragon and as only dragons can fight dragons – we kind of need Henry back – here in Wales.’ I gulp.

  I need him back.

  I stop. Far away I hear a rustling, as if someone is climbing up the far side of the peak.

  ‘Yes?’ Idris is looking steadily down at me, commanding me to continue.